


Feet to the Rising

by rei_c



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Azazel's Special Children, Catholic Character, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Gen, Irish Republicanism, Murder, Mythology - Freeform, Northern Irish Troubles, Politics, Religious Content, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-27
Updated: 2009-01-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7005019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John disappears. With nothing left to do, Dean drives to California in hopes of finding his long-estranged brother. Hopefully, between the two of them, they'll be able to find their father before someone else does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is really a fusion of several fandoms, most noticeably _Supernatural_ and _The Boondock Saints,_ with hints of _The Black Donnellys_ thrown in for good measure. It encompasses a re-telling of the first season with bits and pieces of seasons two and three mixed in for spice. 
> 
> _Feet to the Rising_ has a _great deal_ to say about the politics of Northern Ireland. Organisations such as the IRA are portrayed in a positive light and the Loyalists (and English) are firmly derided and often killed. I understand that this can be extremely uncomfortable and possibly triggerish to many people.

Dean knows when he sees the body, one bullet-shot in the middle of old Nick McGuinness' forehead, rosary pulled out from under his shirt and the cross broken off, missing. It's not like he's forgotten or anything but seeing it, here, when he thought they'd been lucky enough to leave it behind them? Well. Luck o' the Irish doesn't always mean _good_ luck. 

The cop crouching next to the body looks up, eyes sliding over the crowd and fixing on Dean. Paddy O'Riley, good man, came from Eire like they did around the same time, and when he nods at Dean, a motion that no one else picks up on, like maybe Paddy did it to get the sun out of his eyes, Dean gets it. He nods back and slips out of the crowd like smoke, walking away and then running once he's around the corner. 

\--

"Da?" he calls out, slamming the door to their place behind him. There's no reply but it's Friday and his Da always goes out Thursday nights, across the river to the tracks, and stays out late. Dean steps over the empty whisky bottles and smashed cans of Guinness, kicks his shoes off and shrugs his leather jacket off, leaves them all in a heap near the door. "Da? Are ye home?" 

A grunt from the bedroom and Dean speeds past the kitchen, cursing under his breath when he sees that the crusts on the sill have started growing mold and the bowl of milk on the floor has a thin film on top. He doesn’t stop to switch the bread out for fresh, though, doesn’t hesitate at the sight of the rotten milk, just keeps going. The television’s still on in the living room, re-runs of a rugby game from last week playing, and though Dean wants to stop and turn it off, he doesn’t. Instead, he goes down the hallway and comes to a halt at the first bedroom door. 

John's lying in bed, has one eye open and one hand rubbing at his temple, looking sleep-worn and tired. "What is’t, Dean?" he asks, the lilt of his accent pulled out and stretching just like John does a moment later, sitting up. The rosary around his neck is twisted, beads tangled up with the crucifix. John straightens it without a thought, blinks and tilts his head. He breathes out, "Y'look as if you've seen a ghost, lad. What happened?" 

Dean swallows, looks at his father, and says, "Old Nick's been shot. Da, it was UVF."

\--

Dean makes sure John's in his sight the rest of the day and all night. When Paddy comes knocking at their door in the morning, Dean lets him in, is glad he cleaned the place up after helping his father stumble home from the pub last night. 

"John in, Dean?" Paddy asks, sounds tired, like maybe he's been up for days. 

"Aye, and ye are bloody well _welcome_ to the man," Dean replies, just as tired. He pauses, and when Paddy raises an eyebrow, adds, "Sorry. I was with Da all night, Paddy, trying to run the man and the pub both. Please tell me it's not more bad news." 

Paddy shakes his head, brushes past Dean, but Dean follows, leans against the door and listens as Paddy tells John, "There's been another one. UVF execution again, one o’ the others who came here with ye." 

"Who?" John asks, sitting on the sofa, leaning forward and cradling his stubble-worn cheeks in his hands. "Who was't, Paddy?" 

"Martin," Paddy says. "Martin Campbell. Left a young wife and two squalling bairns alone to fend for themselves. That's two from your old unit, John, and the two easiest reached. Best be thinking about who might've come over here gunning for the Winchesters, eh? ‘Specially when I know you haven’t been spreading news of your former affiliation. Speaking of." 

John looks up, meets Paddy's eyes, then looks away, says, "Aye, I've still got it. Hasn't worked since," and he trails off, seems to shake himself, says, "Aye. I've still got it. We'll be careful, Paddy, and we’ll get the news to Bobby and Jim.” John pauses again, looks back at the policeman. Dean watches as his father’s eyes narrow and he says, “Ye be more than passing careful as well." 

Paddy looks at John, then at Dean, who shrugs, before he leaves.

Dean makes sure the policeman leaves and then looks at his father. "Da?" he asks. "Why the hell're they coming after us now?" 

"I've no idea," John says. Dean believes him.

\--

Dean scrubs the kitchen again; it was done last night but it never seems to stay clean anymore, not since his brother left. Now that it’s just Dean and his father, the brownies aren’t creeping out at night and the whole place, cramped and breaking down as it is, smells less like home and more like America. 

The hell of it is, Dean remembers. He remembers what Eire smelled like, the times Ma used to take them out of Belfast and into the country to visit Nana Donnelly, all green and fresh and new. But he remembers the city as well, the smell of gun oil on the Catholic side of town and British money on the Protestant, remembers the smell of his Da's blood after a firefight, remembers what it felt like to hold his little brother in his arms and watch around the corner as Ma picked bullets and shrapnel out of his father. 

Da still wears the scars but he drinks to forget, and Sammy ran away because he didn't want to be caught in neighbourhood politics anymore, too tough with just the Irish, throw in the Italians and the Russians and things got tense more than once. 

Sometimes Dean feels like he's the only one that remembers, the only one who _wants_ to remember and misses home, which means he's the only one who thinks of Ma, who thinks of Eire, who thinks of the Winchester rifle hidden in the back of his Da's closet. 

John 'Winchester' Owen, an English nickname, but Dean scoffs as he scrubs down the floor on his hands and knees, muttering, “Damn them all to hell, the fucking bastards.” Love for the English wasn’t taught in his house and neither was tolerance; for all he hates what his family’s become, he won’t ever say his father was wrong about their bastard overlords. John was wrong about a lot of things but not that and not the way he dealt with it. 

The Winchesters were a legendary unit, even for the IRA, and his Da the leader of them all, Nick and Martin dead now, two still alive: Bobby somewhere in the Midwest, traded in rolling green hills for flat wheat-country, and Jim stuck somewhere where it snows eight months a year, doing penance the only way he knows. John will call them soon, Paddy maybe as well, to warn them about something they all thought would come. It's no wonder some UVF son of a bitch is coming after his Da's unit, not a surprise except to wonder what took them so long. 

Dean scowls, stands up and lets his knees pop as he throws the sponge into the sink. The house won’t stay clean but it looks better for the time being. Dean can’t say the same for himself and he needs to leave for his shift at the factory in half an hour, a full night at the pub to look forward to after that, worry on his back like something trying to bore into the back of his skull. 

There are times he wishes his little brother never left. 

\--

It’s turning colder, the days getting shorter as October creeps its way toward November and snow. Dean hates the snow, doesn’t trust it and loathes its mere presence, waiting for spring like flowers wait for the thaw. There’s little in it to do with snowballs or snowmen, things he’d never gotten until moving to America, and much more to do with patterns of paisley on their windows and no one else’s, more to do with the sharp, stabbing cold of the North Wind gutting through his clothes and into his bones. 

Sam, Sam had always loved winter and he’d loved the wind -- why he moved to California, Dean has no idea, but it eased a worry Dean always had but never spoke of. He thinks of calling Sam but doesn’t, not until there’s a week until All Hallows. Dean closes up his father’s pub at three in the morning and goes home to an empty house. 

John’s been gone for twelve days, now. Dean doesn’t know what else to do.

\--

He calculates the time difference and decides to wait until a decent hour out in California, tries to sleep while he’s putting off a phone call that should have been made a week ago, maybe even three years ago. Sleep doesn’t come easily, though, not with heat fogging up the windows, wind rattling at the frames. It’s the north wind, but not the North Wind, and the frost on the outside of the glass is the same as everyone else’s. It has been the past two winters as well. 

Dean doesn’t think about it, instead going through the house, collecting up beer bottles and putting them out to recycle, tying up old newspapers and throwing them in the third bedroom, now a junk room, replacing the milk and crusts in the kitchen from habit though nothing’s touched either in years. 

He finally falls asleep to the sounds of a football game on the radio, World Cup qualifiers and England’s losing; he’s happy, doesn’t care who’s winning. The phone rings and wakes him up two hours later. Paddy's on the other end. 

“I need to speak wi’ your father, Dean,” the other man says. 

Dean frowns at the tone, says, “He’s gone, Paddy. Left almost two weeks ago.” Paddy swears on the other end of the line, and Dean asks, tentative, “What’s happened?” unsure if he really wants to hear the answer. 

“Dean,” Paddy says, hesitating. Dean asks again, wouldn’t ever cop to _pleading_. Paddy finally sighs, says, “They found a body near the river.” Dean waits, nerves tense, but doesn’t ask. “It was an IRA killing, Dean. One shot to the head, cross carved into the forearms, silver on each eye.”

“No,” Dean says. His ears are humming and his voice sounds hollow. “Paddy, no. That’s not an IRA killing. That’s an execution. A Winchester execution.” 

Silence on the other end, and Paddy finally murmurs, “Mother of God, Dean, ye think I don’t know that? Tell me true, boy: your father, is he there? Is the gun there? Did ye know about this?”

Dean swallows, replies in the same tone. “My hand to the heavens and may God strike me down, Paddy, I didn’t know about this. On my mother’s _soul_ , I didn’t know.” He wants to cry, wants to curl into a ball, but squares himself, carries on. “The gun’s gone. I think Da took it when he left. He’s been gone thirteen days. I was. I was going to call Sam, let him know.” 

“Why don’t ye go out there and visit him,” Paddy says, though Dean’s heard the tone enough from his father to know it's an order, not a suggestion. “Get away from here and warn him. Maybe if the two of ye are far enough away, no one will remember your father had sons. Leave, Dean.” 

Dean’s about to argue, to say that it’s too late, but Paddy hangs up and all he can hear is the dial tone. Dean puts the phone down. He’s looking out of the window when the lights flicker. Blood runs cold inside of him as he drops to the floor; a moment later, gunshots are echoing around him, windows breaking and holes in the walls appearing. 

They don’t mean to kill him, Dean knows; if they did, they would’ve come in the night and he’d be dead already. This is a warning. 

He takes it, doesn’t even stop to clean up the broken glass or board up the gaping holes. Dean packs a rucksack, grabs the keys, and makes for his father’s car. He slides into the Impala, wondering again why John didn’t take it with him. He’s thankful now because it means he can leave without waiting. 

The car purrs to a start and Dean drives away. He doesn’t look back. 

\--

The country’s a lot wider than Dean expects but it doesn’t measure up to the Eire of his memories. The Midwest is too flat though Missouri has hills; he doesn’t see any more of those once he crosses into the Plains states, just barren fields, already harvested and lying dead for the winter. There’s not enough green and everything stinks of death. 

He thinks of stopping in to see Bobby but doesn’t, whether out of misguided obedience to Paddy’s command or some distant fear that his father will be there, that Bobby will already be dead, that the UVF assassin is there right now, waiting for him. Dean sets his sights on California and only stops when he’s too tired to keep going. 

The car runs like a dream, runs like she’s hunting something, and she purrs under his touch like she never has before. Only once does her engine sputter, and that’s when Dean has the idea to turn around, to go back home and wait it out, wait for his father. He actually does turn, gets back on the east-bound side of the highway, and the Impala nearly dies at the side of the road. Dean sits there on the grass next to her, waits with his head in his hands, waving off help whenever some good Samaritan slows down, and he finally gets to his feet with a growl. 

“Fine. We’ll go see Sam. Happy now?” The Impala idles rough until Dean gets turned around, heading back in his original westward direction on a nowhere stretch of I-70, then she’s back to normal. His hands clench the steering wheel as his knuckles turn white. Dean carefully ignores all thoughts of what might be going on and turns up Thin Lizzy. The Impala’s engine screams as they travel west. 

\--

Dean gets to Palo Alto at the tail end of the witching hour and drives around the city looking for Sam’s place. He knows the number and street name, has seen both enough times as the return address on letters neither he nor his father have ever opened, but it takes a while to find the apartment building, shoved in the middle of a long block of cheap-looking buildings made for students. Or factory workers, Dean can’t help but think, because this row of houses, it looks like the one he left back home. 

“Maybe he hasn’t changed that much, hm?” Dean says to himself as he parks. The Impala rumbles her agreement as Dean turns her off and slips out of the door, pockets the keys. 

He walks up the main path, looks at each of the names next to each of the buzzers, sees ‘S. Owen’ in 2B, a curlicue of rowan leaves and blossoms stretching around the sliding name-plate. Dean lets his thumb hover over the buzzer for a long moment, then pulls his hand back, steps back onto the sidewalk and studies the windows. There’s a fire escape in the back that might work, and so Dean convinces himself that he just wants to make sure Sam’s all right, no need to actually _talk_ to his brother. 

Dean climbs up the steps, jams a pocketknife under the window’s lock and pries it upwards, shimmies in and drops to the floor, feet silent on the floor. He looks up, intending to figure out where in the apartment Sam’s bedroom is, and, instead, says, “Shouldn’t ye be sleeping?” 

Sam doesn’t say anything, just stares Dean down. 

Dean’s lopsided smile fades as he takes Sam in and then the rest of the room that he can see in quick succession. There are two bowls on the other windowsill, the one above the sink, one filled with half-eaten crusts, the other empty, and there are two shallow bowls on the floor right next to a vent, drops of milk still stuck to the outside of the ceramic. Holly and ivy twine their way out of baskets hanging from the ceiling, and there’s a scattering of frost on the window, though it’s half open and Palo Alto’s warm at midnight. 

Dean chances a quick look at Sam, who is still waiting, then peeks around the rest of the kitchen, into what little of the living room he can see. Lots of plants, a miniature oak in the corner, lots of ceramic and gold, no iron. Intricate tapestries on the wall, huge stacks of books overflowing from shelves, maybe the corner of a laptop on the couch. There's no dust, though, no television or radio or anything that might hint at technology, at iron and steel. 

“Sam,” he starts to say, then stops. His heart pounds too hard, too fast. "Sam, I know ye can explain this.”

Sam shakes his head, says, “I’m not going to. I don’t have to, not to you.” His voice is biting though the words are plain; Dean can’t help wincing at the violence in them. “Three years, Dean, and you haven’t said a word to me. I’ve written, I’ve emailed, I’ve called. Hell, I even sent presents. And you never said a word. You _sent my presents back_ , Dean. And now you just show up in the middle of the night and demand an explanation from _me_?”

Dean hasn’t reacted to the rant but it’s been hard. He can’t argue with Sam, not when he holds the guilt of everything Sam’s accused him of, but he can damn well try and wrangle an answer out of his brother about this apartment’s decorations. 

“It’s _fae_ , Sam,” he says, gesturing around them both. “All of it! It’s bloody fucking ridiculous, is what it is. Ye can’t honestly tell me this is where you live, that this is _how_ ye live. I don’t believe it. I _won’t_ believe it. We _placate_ the fae and hope they leave us alone. We don't invite them in, don't live the way they live. That's not how we were raised and that's not what we believe.”

Sam snorts, looks away. "We were raised to be superstitious, Dean. That doesn't go against the Church no matter what the fathers always said. Hell, there were times they even encouraged it."

"Superstition is one thing," Dean says, "but this? This is more, aye? How, Sam? Why?" He pauses, waits for an answer. Sam doesn't give him one; Dean shakes his head and says, again, "I won't believe it."

Dean waits, watches his brother. Sam swallows, licks his lips, then turns his head back to look at Dean. “You have to decide what lie you’re going to put your faith in, then,” Sam replies, more evenly than he has any right to sound. “Because this is the truth. You gave up the right to judge me when you kicked me out, you and Da both.”

Dean stares at his brother in horror; Sam stands there with his arms folded as if he doesn't see anything at all wrong with what he's been doing. 

"Ye said ye wanted to be safe," Dean breathes, unable to accept this. "Ye left us to be safe and I come out here and find ye holding truck with the likes of the fair folk?"

"The fair folk are a lot safer than," Sam says, though he cuts himself off with an audible clack of teeth. He shakes his head, changes the subject and scowls. "The fair folk don't have _guns_ , Dean. They aren't about to break into my house in the dead of night and start shooting me for something I don't even know about." At Dean’s look of surprise, Sam’s scowl turns feral. “Paddy called me, him and Jim both. They warned me because neither of them thought you’d actually have the balls to show up here.”

Dean can't hold back a bark of hysterical laughter. Hearing that two people he considers family don’t trust him to take care of his brother hurts but, even more than that, Sam’s words drive knives into his stomach. "No, Sammy, they won't have guns. They don’t need them; they can lure us out and take us whenever they please. Fuck, they'd kill ye or kidnap ye to the Summerlands and ye'd have a smile on your face the whole time. Tell me, please, that ye've had cold iron on ye when ye've dealt with them." 

Sam's face is carved in mutinous lines as he shakes his head. "We've been good to them," he says. "We’ve always been good to them. We set out bread and crusts for the brownies and we never harmed a pixie-mote; we never threw hot water on Jack Frost or stuffed out the North Wind. They followed me, Dean, they all followed me, and they were the ones who initiated contact. I’ve taken care of the ones that came west with me and I’ve talked with them. I trust them."

"Ye trust them," Dean echoes, blankly. "I never knew ye carried the idiocy of Eire's greatest into this country, Sam. Ye were still a baby when Dad moved us over here and we made sure ye grew up American." 

"Well, you kinda fucked that one over," Sam replies, still angry. "Doesn't matter how I talk or what culture I fit into, Dean. Eire runs through my veins, better than you'd ever guess."

Dean laughs, bitter this time; Sam's words sound ridiculously similar to those Dean's heard from his father. He imagines what John would say if he could hear Sam now, talking like this. "Ye and Da, Sammy? Is that it? You're both sheep, Sam, if ye think any of our ancestors had better ideas than we do now. What'd it get them, eh? Ever think of that? Death or imprisonment, insanity and obscurity. That what ye want? Is that what ye think Da brought us over here for?"

Sam bares his teeth, jaw muscles clenched. "Da followed Yeats as well, Dean. We both follow him," Sam hisses. "Da just chose the revolutionary."

"And ye the mystic." Dean vaguely notices his accent raring up, as it does when he gets emotional, but Sam's too angry to point it out. "Whatever you're thinking, Sam, you're not Yeats. You're not even one o' his acolytes."

Sam huffs, turns to the side. "And what would you know about it, Dean? Can you tell me that?"

Dean's taken aback by the look he sees flashing through Sam's eyes as his brother glances away. There's a certain measure of anger there, yes, but also sorrow, also resignation. Dean's never seen that look in Sam before though it's one that his father wears often. They're so much more alike than Dean ever realised. 

"Sam," he says, softly now. "Can ye tell me. What is this about? Why'd ye leave us and come out here?"

Silence for a long moment, then Sam looks back at him, and his eyes are glittering with bone-deep pain. "I'm the one who killed her, Dean," Sam says. "I'm the one that killed Ma. I'm the reason she's dead. You think I could stay in the same house as Da any longer, especially doing what I've been doing here? You know Da's feelings about us communicating with the fair folk."

Dean freezes, shakes his head, deciding for now to ignore the thought of what their father's going to do to Sam when he finds out what Sam's been up to. "Sam, Sammy, come on. Da's the one who shot her, and an accident as well. That isn't your fault."

"And why d'you think she was where she was?" Sam argues back, with far less heat than Dean would've expected. No, his tone reeks of bitter, cold logic, even more so when he continues. "And how d'you explain away where Da was, hundreds of metres away from the rest of his unit? Why d'you think the fair folk left Eire and followed us over here when all we had to offer was ourselves and our dreams? Passing strange, isn't it, when none of our neighbours found themselves the home of night-sprites, when no one else was visited by Jack Frost or the North Wind, when no other home was cleaned and kept by brownies? How did you explain that away all these years, Dean?"

"What are ye trying to say?" Dean asks, voice no louder than a whisper. He's lost the ability to feel, his entire body gone numb, as Sam catalogues every single one of the questions Dean's always had but never allowed himself to vocalise. "Sam, what're ye." 

Sam shakes his head, turns away. Dean can see his brother grip the edge of the formica counter; Sam's knuckles turn white as his head hangs low. Dean aches to go over and brush the hair out of Sam's face, curl his palm over the back of Sam's neck. He's grateful for the numbness, the complete inability to do more than stand there, watching, though he doesn't know where it's coming from. 

"Please," Dean says. "Sammy, tell me." 

Sam turns back to face him and this time Dean has to fight to stay motionless. Sam's eyes are fey, foreign, nothing at all like they normally are or should be -- moss-agate green shot through with gold threads, circling around pupils so black they look almost like bottomless holes -- and Sam's holding himself differently, _feels_ different. 

"Holy Mother and Blessed Trinity," Dean whispers, making the sign of the cross. Sam doesn't appear affected, which is good, means he might be saved. "Sam, what did they _do_ to ye? Tell me, Sam, and we’ll find a way out of it, find a way to keep them away from ye." 

Sam sighs and Dean swears, just for that moment, he hears the wind sigh as well. "They didn’t do a thing to me, Dean," Sam says, and Dean passes out at the sound of bells in Sam's voice.

\--

Dean wakes up with a pounding headache and a muttered curse; he doesn’t expect to hear someone chuckle. When he opens his eyes, Sam’s sitting right next to him, back to normal. Dean blinks, looks around, sees that he’s on a low mattress in a different room than he’s seen before, and sits up. This must be Sam’s bedroom, what with the wardrobes carved out of a light, unstained wood, the plants everywhere, clothes scattered about the place. 

“At least that hasn’t changed, ye slob,” Dean mutters, surprised to hear Sam laughing at the comment. 

Sam’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, placed on some type of wooden frame a foot off of the floor, right next to Dean; he’s warm, almost emitting heat from his large frame. The feel of Sam, the wave of heat coming off of his skin, creeps and slides along the length of Dean’s body. He shivers at the feel, ignores it.

“So,” Dean says, exhaling. He can’t seem to meet his brother’s eyes. “Sam. Ye. You’re good?” 

Sam’s nose wrinkles, but he nods. “Yes, Dean. I’ve been fine. Busy this time of year.” He must see the puzzled look on Dean’s face that clears up quickly, a handful of time between Dean wondering if Sam’s got exams or something to realising it’s nearing Samhain. Sam gives Dean a shallow nod, eyes glittering and lips pressed tight, as he stand and heads for the door. “Why don’t you get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.” 

Dean can’t help the grimace that crosses his expression as he asks, “What, while ye go and throw your life away to them? Come to church with me for All Hallows instead, Sam. Surely ye’ve a priest holding vigil around this city somewhere.”

“When you know what you’re talking about,” Sam says evenly, “then I might listen to you.” He turns, walks through the doorway, and locks the door behind him. 

Dean doesn’t believe it, not at first. He sits there for a long moment, staring at the plants, the mobiles of stars and moons hanging from the ceiling right over the pillow, and finally gets up and walks to the door. Dean tests the handle; it’s locked but good. Sinking into a crouch, Dean pokes at the lock and eventually murmurs, “On Ma’s grave, Sam, what have ye gotten into now?” 

The lock’s shining gold and silver. There’s no way Dean will be able to jimmy it open. 

\--

Dean goes back to Sam’s bed and perches gingerly on the edge of the mattress, not trusting that it won’t turn into something else while he’s not looking. He glances around the room, as if searching for movement, and takes the rosary out of his back pocket. Jade beads slide through his fingers as he recites a decade and focuses on the Glorious Mysteries, giving special attention to trusting the Holy Mother for her intercession. He tries not to think about his own mother and what Sam was implying at the mention of her earlier. 

Once he’s done, settled himself as much as he can, Dean starts exploring Sam’s bedroom. He starts with the dresser, picks up and examines every little knick-knack, even the ones that make his skin crawl, then studies the ones lining the low windowsill. Fingers run over the curtain, and a sudden, low curse spills from his lips as he brings his finger to his lips, sucks at the blood welling up from where he’s just dug his skin against a particularly spiny leaf of holly. 

Dean picks through the curtain, stops in amazement when he sees that Sam’s apparently woven holly into twisting patterns _in_ the fabric. He shakes his head, makes sure that none of his blood got anywhere else, and turns back to the centre of the room, stopping when he sees the figure standing there. 

It’s a man, about the height of his father, with curling hair, wearing black from head to toe. 

“Da?” Dean asks, voice shock-quiet, and he almost takes a step forward, until the man turns around. Dean sees that it isn’t his father, is, instead, someone with swirling, endless eyes, and he steps backwards, bumping against the glass as he backs up all the way to the window. 

The fae tips his head to one side, says, “You’re the one whose blood summoned me.” There’s something familiar in the quality of his voice and Dean wants to snarl when he realises: Sam’s voice also had the ringing sound of bells behind his words. “Where is my son?” 

Dean bares his teeth, holds up the rosary, and hears ice crackle across the window behind him. “He’s my brother, ye fae bastard. What do ye want with ‘im?” 

The fae smiles, showing teeth in return. “Ye may be related to my son by blood but one of us y'aren't. I owe ye no explanation, mortal, not yet. Now, tell me, _where is my son_.” 

There are echoes of compulsion in that order, that question, and Dean wants to fight it but he hears himself answering, as if from a great distance, “I don’t know. He locked me in.” 

“Well, all right, then,” the fae murmurs, giving Dean a narrow-eyed look. 

Dean can feel the scalding weight of the gaze burn him down to the bone, and he whispers, “ _Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum_ ,” watching as the fae steps backwards, eyes on Dean as it heads unseeing for the door. Dean licks his lips, holds up the rosary even higher, cross swinging from delicate gold thread, and takes one halting step forward. “ _Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, Iesus_.” 

The fae scowls but his expression clears soon enough; he's wearing a triumphant smirk as he slips _through_ the door. Dean stumbles through the rest of the prayer, but he does finish. For a long time, the only noise that filters through his ears is the echo of the last sentence. 

_Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostræ. Amen._

\--

Dean finally falls asleep while watching the edges of the sunrise finger their way over the horizon. He dreams of yellow eyes and isn't sure what wakes him up at first, just like he’s not quite sure where he’s at. He thinks motel room at first, because it isn’t drafty like his own bedroom, but the cold flowing in through the cracked window feels too sharp and bitter for a motel. 

Dean hears noise coming from a different room in the apartment and sits up, covering a yawn with one hand. His eyes search out the nearest clock, see that he's been sleeping for an hour. It doesn't feel that long, hasn't been enough, yet he's wide awake when the door handle rattles. The door opens, then, and Sam’s head peers around the edge. Dean’s about ready to ask what the hell’s going on but then he sees the tiredness hovering around his brother’s shoulders, sees the bloodshot eyes and the ragged scrapes on Sam’s skin, clinging there with dirt and blood. 

“Are ye all right?” Dean asks, voice low, heated, as he crosses the room in a handful of strides, tilting Sam’s face up to the light, rubbing his thumb along Sam’s jaw. “Sam, tell me you’re all right or I’ll kill every last one o’ them, swear on my soul, I will, I’ll do it.” 

“Blasphemy,” Sam says, worn-out smile curving his lips upward. “We weren’t raised to speak like that, Dean.” 

Dean snorts, argues back, “No, we were raised to treat them as dangerous cousins no one ever talked about. Sam, one of them showed up here. We need to talk.” 

Sam nods, says, “I know. Not now, though; I’m tired. It was a long night.” Dean snorts, but settles, calms, when Sam goes on to ask, “Sleep time?” 

“Aye, Sam,” Dean murmurs, pulling Sam inside the bedroom. “C’mon,” he adds, unnecessarily, leading Sam to the bed. Sam makes some token protests about the couch in the living room, a shower, washing his face and pissing, but Dean won’t hear a word of it, shoving Sam down and wrestling his brother under the covers. 

Sam licks his lips, curls into the pillow and pulls the heavy blankets up to his neck. Dean eyes the window, thinks about it closing it, and Sam murmurs, “No, don’t, they won’t like it,” and cracks one eyelid long enough to pin a glance on Dean and pat the empty space of the mattress next to him. 

Dean sighs, wraps the rosary around his wrist, then slips back into bed, pulling Sam close, kissing the top of his head. “We’ll talk later, Sam. God grant ye sleep and the dreams to enjoy it.” 

“’N ye,” Sam mumbles, one hand covering Dean’s, the rosary’s cross. Dean tenses, but Sam merely relaxes, starts breathing deep and even, and Dean calms enough to close his own eyes, falling asleep minutes later. 

\--

Dean doesn’t feel like waking up. He’s warm, comfortable, and the pillow he’s clutching, burying his face in, smells like Sam. 

_Sam_.

That has Dean sitting up straight in half a second as he scans the room for his little brother. There’s no sign of Sam, but as Dean’s pushing at the half-open door, he smells coffee, bacon, and pancakes. The sight that greets him, once he’s outside of the bedroom, is one that he never thought he’d see in his life: Sam’s cooking and the apartment’s still in one piece. 

As if Dean made some noise of disbelief, Sam turns, looks over his shoulder, and grins the most innocent grin Dean’s seen in his life. 

“Hungry?” Sam asks, and it’s all Dean can do to not go over and punch Sam square in his cocky little face. 

Instead, Dean goes over to his brother, looks over Sam’s shoulder and raises an eyebrow when he sees golden-brown pancakes, crispy bacon, the coffee-pot half full of what looks like some seriously awesome coffee. 

Sam gestures to one cabinet, says, “Get a mug, pour yourself something to drink, and stop lurking.”

Dean smacks his brother on the back of his head, and as Sam’s muttering things about Dean’s virility and gender, Dean opens the cabinet, grabs a plain, brown-glazed mug, and pours himself a cup of coffee. He almost spits out the first sip, simply because it’s the best coffee he’s ever tasted. That is in no way natural. 

“Sam, where, on God’s green earth, did ye learn to cook?” Dean asks, can’t help himself, flushes furiously when Sam starts to laugh. 

“Dean, I’ve been taking care of myself for three years, now,” Sam replies, flipping the stack of pancakes out onto a plate, coating them in butter and sliding the bacon out right next to them, each strip crisp, sizzling. “You think I didn’t eat?” 

Dean eyes the basket of fruit on the counter, filled to overflowing with apples and oranges, opens the fridge and sees pears, whole wheat bread, a block of cheese, other fruits, lots of vegetables, no meat. “Where’d the bacon come from?” Dean asks, suddenly suspicious. “It’s not tofu, is it?”

“Relax,” Sam says, breezing past and reaching around Dean for a carafe of orange juice. “I went out this morning and picked it up, figured you wouldn’t be able to wake up without meat.” 

“How long have ye been a vegetarian?” Dean asks, next. He feels slightly out-of-place asking it; Sam’s his brother, he should know these things about Sam. It makes him feel a little better, he thinks, to see that Sam’s tensed up as well. 

Silence stretches out and Dean’s about to apologise when Sam shifts to the sink, taking the pans with him. “Since I moved out here,” Sam says, then turns the water on, puts the dishes to soaking. “But I never really ate a lot of meat at home.” 

Dean thinks back, all those times Sam avoided dinner, all those times Sam ran out before breakfast, all those times Sam came home from school and disappeared into his bedroom and a pile of books for hours and hours, all the sausage, corned beef, hamburger that Sam never ate. Strangely enough, Dean’s throat gets tight and he wishes, just once, that the fae responsible for this was in front of him to kill. He’d do it in a heartbeat, he knows, no hesitation, just his hands and one fae throat to strangle. 

“Dean,” Sam says, and he places his hand, feather-light, on Dean’s shoulder, squeezes just enough for Dean to snap out of it. “Go eat,” he adds. 

“Y’eat?” Dean asks, lifting his chin at the same time he lifts the plate and heads for the table, simple wood, no fancy carvings on the legs or the chairs. 

Sam tosses Dean a lighthearted grin even as his eyes look shadowed, dark. “Earlier, before I went out for your bacon.” He grabs a pear out of the fridge, though, and settles into the chair across the table from Dean with a silver knife, carving out pieces to nibble at. 

It’s surprisingly easy to sit there and stuff his face, almost too easy for Dean’s taste, but it’s been three years without Sam; Sam’s within reach now, so Dean sits and doesn’t say a word, just feasts his stomach and his eyes.

\--

Sam does dishes and goads Dean into going for a walk around the block, calls him an old man and tells him that he’s good for nothing but retiring back to Eire. Dean goes along with it, returns the insults with interest, telling Sam that moving to California and living amongst heathens makes Sam a traitor to his Irish heritage. Dean ignores the pained smile Sam gives him at that comment. 

Dean wants to bring up their father’s disappearance, wants to fill Sam in on what’s been going on in the neighbourhood since Sam left, especially in the past month. Sam, though, gives him this look, this ‘please wait, not yet’ puppy-dog look that’s only grown more potent with time and distance, so Dean holds his peace and allows Sam, with minor protest, to drag him into a bookshop. 

It’s not normally the type of place that Dean willingly walks into, no matter how attractive the women inside are, mostly because there aren’t any back in the neighbourhood. This is a yuppie thing, not an immigrant thing, and it doesn’t really shock Dean that Sam’s apparently a regular here with the way people greet him, the way he navigates precarious stacks of book with nary a thought. 

He leads Dean right to the back and an unmarked door. Dean’s wary, has heard of too many Irish walking through doors like this only to find themselves at the end of a Russian or Italian gun. Even though this is Sam’s turf, trouble might have followed them. 

“Sam,” he starts to say, but then Sam pushes the door open and the room beyond is bright, airy, filled with plants and glossy magazines. Dean frowns, follows his brother, and raises an eyebrow at the woman in the corner, purple-tipped fingernails tapping on the cover of an old, worn book resting on her lap. 

“Dean,” Sam says, “this is Meg.” 

The woman meets Dean’s eyes, and it’s all he can to hold himself still, to not reach immediately for the rosary he dropped back into his pocket that morning. “Fae,” Dean snarls, word emerging through clenched teeth. Her eyes are dark, pupils near to swirling, amused.

Sam puts one hand on Dean’s chest, gives Dean a pleading look, to just _wait_ for a second, then turns to the fae and says, “Meg, this is my brother. The troubles we were expecting, he’s brought news that they’ve started back east.” 

Dean frowns at that, turns to his brother and asks, short on patience, “ _What_?”

Meg laughs, tilts her head, reaches up and plays with one curl of her pixie-cut hair. “Ye haven’t told him anything, Sam?” she asks, and Dean swallows at the sound of her voice, echoing with bells the way Sam’s had last night, the way that ill-begotten fae had in Sam’s bedroom. 

“I thought it would be easier this way,” Sam says, sighing his way to an exhale. “Looks like I was wrong.” 

“Would someone just tell me what the bloody _fuck_ is going on here?” Dean asks, voice held tight against explosion. 

A smile crosses Meg’s face and she gestures to a chair across the room from her, one with a clear view of windows and doors. “Take a seat, Dean, and we’ll be happy to.” 

\--

“It began back when the English took over,” Sam starts out, once Dean’s sitting down. Sam’s still standing, begins to pace as he continues. “After the Plantation, they brought their religion to Eire and began a.” 

“I’m well aware of our history, Sam,” Dean manages to say, interrupting Sam with as pleasant a tone as he can muster up. “Why don’t ye skip a few hundred years and tell me how _we’re_ involved.”

Meg shakes her head but settles deeper into her chair, raising one hand and checking her nails. Dean bares his teeth at the fae and she smiles back. Sam moves to stand between them, break the staring contest. Dean looks up, sees the circles under Sam’s eyes, the faint scratches that Sam had returned to the apartment with earlier, and holds his tongue. 

Sam gives him a faint nod and goes on. “All right. Skipping a couple centuries, then. In the late nineteenth century, when Parnell was beginning to rave about Home Rule, a group of mystics and academics, mostly, poets and writers and visionaries, left Ulster and went south to County Cork, the Drombeg circle.” 

“The Druid’s Altar,” Dean whispers. Sam nods. “Why the hell would anyone go near that?” 

“I’m sure if ye,” Meg starts to say, but Sam turns to face her. Dean can’t tell if Sam’s giving her a look or mouthing words, but she purses her lips, glares around Sam at Dean, then takes to staring at the wall above Dean’s left shoulder. 

Sam turns back to Dean, carries on. “They invoked the power of the circle on the night of a new moon and one of the fair folk arrived. The group bargained and the fae agreed: until Eire’s united again and out of British hands, a handful of fair folk would go to willing human women, get them with half-fae, half-human children.”

Dean knows he’s gaping but he can’t help himself. “ _Why_?” he asks. “Ye mean, Sam, that you’re. That Ma was. _No_. No, I don’t believe ye.” 

“He never asked ye to believe him,” Meg mutters. “Just to listen and ye can’t even do that, can ye.” She snorts, adds, “Mortals,” and looks as surprised as Dean feels when Sam whirls around.

“He’s my brother, Meg,” Sam says, voice back with that lingering echo of bells. 

Dean lifts a hand, rubs his forehead, stops in horror when Meg retorts, “And I’m your sister, Sam. We’re both of us related to ye, and magic and blood trumps blood alone. Ye owe more allegiance to me than to him.”

“The same fae,” Dean half-asks. “The one that was there this morning.” 

Meg’s eyes grow wide, and this time it’s Sam who pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can I just finish, you two? You’re arguing over me, the both of you, but I’m my own person and you’re more alike than you ever realised.” 

Dean’s eyes widen as Meg narrows hers, wrinkles her nose, but they both nod that they’ll be quiet. 

Sam’s still pacing, is lit up by sunrays coming in through the window, and, in that moment, Dean can see it, has to admit it: the same sight that he’s seen a million times but now he knows that Sam _is_ as otherworldly as he appears. 

“The fair folk aligned themselves with Catholic Eire, Dean,” Sam says. “They have no love for the Protestants and the English, and they want their land back, whole again. The half-mortal children they fathered, they have gifts that are meant to be used in the fight for our freedom. Ma was as patriotic as Da, in her own way, so when they approached her, she agreed to chance hell as an adulteress and a witch both for the sake of her country. Da found out, wasn’t happy at all but couldn’t do anything about it, not when I was already growing in her belly. So she gave birth to me.” 

“And her death?” Dean asks. He feels numb again, hearing Sam talk about this so bitterly, as if he knows this is all fact. It feels like fact. That makes it worse. 

Meg opens her mouth, but Sam lifts a finger and she studies him, finally says, voice low and trailing into silence, “If it hurts overmuch, Sam.” 

Sam nods and she sits back, turns liquid eyes on Dean. 

“Da’s unit was meant to be going after a prisoner transport leaving Belfast for Derry,” Sam says. “One of the IRA’s higher-ups was on that transport and they were supposed to kill the rest of the convoy and free the prisoner. The intel they were given filtered down from Seán MacBride, who was one of us,” Sam says, hesitantly. 

Dean wonders why, because of course MacBride was one of them, he was a great member of the IRA until he resigned his post, but then he realises what Sam means. Dean shakes his head, says, “Sam, MacBride can’t be half-fae. He’s. It’s not possible.” 

“Think ye your mother was any more patriotic than Maud Gonne?” Meg asks, from across the room, and Dean can’t even muster up enough indignation to scowl at her. 

“Ma wasn’t meant to be anywhere near that area of the city,” Sam says, “and Da’s target was hundreds of metres to the west. Even the angle of the shot shouldn’t have been possible, but the Winchester Da was using, it’s not, not exactly normal.” 

Dean’s about to ask what the hell Sam means, but then he thinks of the Impala, and asks, instead, “Which is it? I’m guessing our car’s one of them, too.” 

Sam doesn’t ask how Dean knows that, just nods. “The Impala’s really one of Cúchulainn's horses, Dub Sainglend transformed for today’s times and to stay with our family. The other horse was lost back in the seventies.” Meg mutters something about blowing up England’s myths with dynamite, but Sam ignores her to say, “And the Winchester was one of Lugaid’s spears. It hasn’t worked for Da since he shot Ma, because each spear.” 

“Was meant to kill a king,” Dean fills in. “And if Ma was mother to a fae princeling, it would consider her a queen. More than equal.” 

He feels hollow, even more so when Sam kneels at his feet, looking every inch the baby brother that Dean remembers from before. “Da couldn’t have known she would be there, Dean. He didn’t mean to do it on purpose, it just happened. Something about Da's position was wrong but we aren't sure what or why or how. And Ma, her being where she was, the only answer we have is that someone or something lured her there, made it fit with the intel Da was given. Dean, we don’t know, not entirely, but she was killed because of me and I think her death, the way it happened, was part of the reason Da gave it all up and left.” 

“A greater part of taking ye away from your home, from Eire, from _us_ , brother-mine,” Meg pipes in, though Dean doesn’t begrudge her the comment, not when she sounds as upset as Sam. 

“So ye said y’expected it here,” Dean asks. “The troubles come to a new land.” 

Sam stands, knees popping, and he glances at Meg. She shrugs, minutely, and says, “Tell ‘im however much ye want, Sam.” 

Dean waits as Sam gives him a distracted look on the way to the window. Sam looks out of it; Dean doesn’t know what his brother’s seeing, but Dean’s watching the way that the bottom of the window frosts over in the warm weather. He shivers, thinks back to childhood winters, keeping vigil once November rolled around for the first touch of Jack Frost, his mother holding him and rocking Sam’s cradle with her foot. 

“The fair folk allied with the Catholics,” Sam finally says, not looking at his brother or his sister. “The Protestants have other allies, we’re not sure what. They aren’t Fir Domnann, nothing spoken of in the Ulster Cycle nor the other three. All of the Irish in this land, they’ve brought the fair folk with them, from time to time, clan to clan.”

“But this was a Protestant land first,” Dean says, suddenly understanding. “And whatever’s helped the UVF doesn’t like that the fae are walking in America.” He lets out a slow whistle, says, “So they’ve brought the war to this country.” 

Sam nods, still with his back to the rest of the room, though he soon moves and sits down on a chair halfway between Dean and Meg, as if he’s unwilling to pick sides. “We were waiting for the opening shot,” he says. “The minute they went after the Winchesters, that’s when we knew. Things have already started heating up out here and there’s not even a substantial Irish population.”

No one says anything for a few minutes until Meg meets Dean’s eyes and says, “Our best guess is that they want the Winchester: the rifle John Owen shot the mother of a fae halfling with. We think they found a way to tamper with it, somehow, and want it back. They'll try to use it again, if they can, as they know it worked once. We haven't received confirmation, though, and that has our Da worried.” 

Dean leans back in his chair, eyes on his brother as Sam sits halfway between him and Meg, resting his elbows on his knees, wrapping an earnest expression around Dean. Dean’s almost not inclined to believe a word he’s just been told but the room smells of Eire, of rolling hills and green grass, the pain of the north and the craggy ocean-kissed wind of the west. 

“This is war, isn’t it,” Dean says. “Again. Still. And now we’re even more wrapped up in it.”

“It’s more than politics,” Meg says. “It goes deeper than religion, as well, no matter what any Separatist or Loyalist might say. This goes back to our history, Dean, to what we are and who we came from. They’re trying to kill the fae.” She pauses, throws a troubled look in Sam’s direction, and adds, “We’re all, to some extent, already descendants of the fair folk. If they die, there’s no saying what might happen to all of us, direct offspring and mortal alike.” 

Dean feels the truth of that like a punch to the stomach. 

\--

Meg leaves soon after, murmuring to Sam in words too quiet and too Irish for Dean to make any sense of. Dean sits there, thinks about everything his brother’s just told him, from his mother’s affair with a member of the fair folk to the people and things hunting his father. It doesn’t explain much but it goes a long way towards giving Dean an idea of the seriousness of everything that’s happened in the course of his life. 

“They tried to kill me before I left, y’know,” he finally says, once the sun’s travelled a little ways across the sky. 

Sam stops, sits up straight and looks at Dean to ask, “What?” 

Dean snickers at Sam’s tone, the absolute surprise and horror in his brother’s voice. It helps to lessen his own feelings regarding the event. “Aye. Right before I left. I’d just gotten off the phone with Paddy, and the lights flickered. Hit the deck as fast as I could and the bastards let loose with machine guns. Just a warning, I thought, but hearing all ye and Meg’ve said, I’m beginning to rethink.” 

“After all,” Sam says, thoughtfully, as if plotting and planning has overridden the fear, “with you dead and Da gone, who would the Impala have answered to?” 

“Don’t you mean, who would’ve Dub Sainglend answered to?” Dean asks, frowning. 

Sam grins, shakes his head. Dean can’t take his eyes off the way Sam’s curls move, backlit by the sun. “He picked his form, so that’s how we should refer to him.” Personally, Dean thinks it’s strange to think of a car as a ‘him,’ but he’ll go along with it for now. “He’s here,” Sam says a moment later, as if the thought’s just occurred to him. 

Sam stands, and Dean does as well, watching his brother. Sam’s eyes grow unfocused for a moment, almost as if he’s listening for something, but Dean cocks his head and listens as well, can’t hear anything.

“Come on,” Sam says, heading for the door, flowing into motion in a way that Dean knows isn’t humanly possible. Dean shakes his head, follows his brother through the bookstore, past the coffee shop section, and outside. Sam breathes, long nasal inhale and out through his mouth, then takes off down a side-street.

Dean narrows his eyes but follows and, within five minutes, they’re standing next to the Impala, which is decidedly _not_ where he left it the night before. Not that it’s been towed or anything, it’s just about eight blocks away from where he parked it and it’s running. Sam’s down on one knee, hand pressed to one of the Impala’s doors, and Dean’s on the verge of taking out his rosary and pressing it against the car every time the engine revs. 

Sam finally gives Dean a half-distant smile and stands up, brushing off his knees. “He says thank you,” Sam explains, “for the ride. Oh, and, by the way, you really need to lay off the gas and stop tailgating. It makes him nervous.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just smacks Sam across the back of the head and rolls his eyes. 

“Will you take us home?” Sam asks, and Dean’s about to roll his eyes again and say that Sam’s an absolute idiot and in no way related to him, when the Impala’s doors unlock and open by themselves. 

Dean goes around the car and slides into the driver’s seat, Sam not saying a word about it as he gets into the passenger side and closes the door. Dean just barely puts his foot on the gas pedal and the Impala’s moving smooth and sure, backing up down the street. 

“The _apartment_ ,” Sam adds, sounds as if he’s trying to pull off irritated but can do more than summon amusement. The Impala rumbles, drives forward and hangs a left at the corner. 

\--

Once they’re back in Sam’s apartment, surrounding by light, plants, and a thin pane of ice on the windows, Dean eyes a calendar and bites his lip. Sam notices in the midst of taking something out of the fridge, raises his eyebrow in question. 

“All Hallow’s Eve,” Dean says, as if that’s enough of an explanation. 

Sam nods, evidently understanding what Dean isn’t saying, and replies, “I’ll be out tonight. There’s a sort of _dolmen_ set up not too far from here. Meg and I have to go, as well as a few others.”

“A _dolmen_ ,” Dean echoes, shoulders set and eyes narrowed. “Sam, tell me that none of ye are going to be so stupid as to sacrifice anyone on a stone table. No matter how fae this has become, I refuse to accept that it’s become as Anglicanised as fucking _Narnia_.”

“No sacrifices,” Sam says, grinning as he starts chopping up vegetables. “First of all, that’s Beltain, not Samhain. Forgot your history lessons, have you? Second of all,” he goes on to say, before Dean can start arguing, “we’re calling the last night of an _oenaig na samna_ and we can’t have a proper one without a table.” 

Dean grunts, neither accepting nor denying Sam’s words. 

“There’s a church down the road,” Sam says, softer now, throwing the vegetables into a pan on top of the stove before turning to focus his attention on Dean. “The priest there, he’s a good man with Republican leanings. He doesn’t approve of me but he understands, I think. He’ll be holding vigil tonight.” Sam pauses, finally asks, “I can ring him, let him know to expect you?” 

A breeze comes through the window, rushes around Dean and moulds itself to Sam’s body, raising goosebumps on Sam’s arms. “Aye,” Dean says, seeing his brother relax into the wind’s touch. “Aye, I think that’d be good.”


	2. Chapter 2

The church doors are unlocked when Dean tries them that night, after long afternoon hours filled with sun and semi-uncomfortable silences. He walks in, holds the door so it closes behind him with a click instead of a bang, then moves a bit further in, pausing at the font to dip his fingers in Holy Water and make the Sign of the Cross, murmuring, “ _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen_ ,” as he does so. 

Before he enters the sanctuary, Dean takes the rosary out of his back pocket and fingers the beads before wrapping the necklace around his wrist, feeling the cool, comforting weight of it on his skin. A deep breath and Dean walks into the sanctuary, eyes darting around quickly, taking in the altar, the Stations of the Cross, the confessional to one side, the stained glass windows. It’s small but in a cozy sense, the lighting dim enough to not ache but bright enough so that none holding vigil will be able to fall asleep. 

A priest is standing up near the front but Dean stays towards the back, kneels and genuflects before sliding into a pew and putting down the kneeler. He settles onto knees and heels, folds his hands together, and closes his eyes. 

\--

Dean doesn’t know what time it is when he opens his eyes again but it’s still dark outside. He’s relatively sure that a few hours, at least, have passed; the All Hallow’s vigil has always gone by fast for him, settling into a sense that here, if nowhere else, he is safe and not alone. Sam always used to fidget, used to scowl at having to sit in church all night, and only now does Dean wonder if Sam’s reluctance to step foot into any house of God went beyond ordinary rebellion. 

There are voices behind him, near the doors, low murmurs back and forth. The priest from the front has moved so Dean assumes that one of the voices belongs to him, but the other, he’s curious about what type of person would also hold vigil, especially in a place so far removed from Eire or the places her people have settled in this country. Dean doesn’t look, though, doesn’t turn around, just lets his eyes roam over the crucifix in the front, half-wondering what the Son of God would have to say about people like Sam existing in the world. This is the first year he honestly doesn’t want to think about All Souls and where his mother might be. 

The voices quiet and hush, then footsteps ring out as two people walk down the centre aisle. Dean tenses, can’t help it, not with the memory of gunmen shooting up his home still fresh and vivid, and he turns just enough to see them as they pass the end of his pew and keep moving. He relaxes, wants to laugh at himself, when he sees that they’re both priests. 

They begin the Blessed Sacrament and Dean says the prayers that have been ingrained in him since birth, stands and kneels in smooth motions when he knows to, and finally slides out of the pew and walks down to the altar to receive the Host. He’s Irish, so he drops to his knees at the altar, bows his head, then looks up. 

“The body of Christ,” the priest says, Midwest accent as his hand holds the wafer. 

“Amen,” Dean whispers, and opens his mouth to receive. He stays on his knees as the priest steps back and the other priest, older, grey around the temples, moves forward with the chalice in his hands. 

“The blood of Christ,” he says, and the Irish accent is thick and heavy, distorting his words into something that Dean recognises as _home_.

Dean looks up, breathes out, “Aye, amen,” the words reeled from somewhere deep inside of him, and he drinks. 

The wine is bitter as it slides down his throat; Dean can feel it warm up his esophagus as it travels through him, washing and cleansing him. He stays kneeling for a moment to let it settle, then stands and gives the altar, and the priests, a respectful half-bow before moving back to a pew halfway back in the church and kneeling again to pray. 

\--

The next time he opens his eyes, faint streams of shadows are visible through the windows. Dawn is approaching, and fast. His eyes scan what he can see for the priests, but neither one’s visible. A rustle of movement behind him and Dean goes rigid, every muscle in his body tense. 

“Forgive me, lad,” the person behind him says, and Dean sits up, pushes the kneeler back into place, and turns in the pew, looking at the priest who has the thickest Irish brogue Dean’s heard in the States this side of Paddy. “I dinnae mean to startle ye.” 

Dean tilts his head, says, “No harm done, Father.” 

The common address makes the priest wince, and Dean raises an eyebrow in question. “I know your father, Dean,” the priest says, before he says, “Ye’ve talked to me on the telephone many times, but I have nae seen ye in the flesh since ye were a wee little bairn.” 

“Pastor Jim?” Dean asks, squinting, as if he can somehow overlap the image of the man sitting there with the one he vaguely remembers from his childhood. “What are ye doing in Palo Alto?” 

“Pastor no longer,” Jim replies. Dean can hear the sadness in the older man’s voice but doesn’t ask Jim to explain it. “And I came down as soon as Paddy told me ye were meant to be coming. I wanted to talk to ye and your brother.” Dean’s eyes flick to one side at the mention of Sam, as if even bringing up a fae halfling in church will damn someone for eternity. “Aye, about that,” Jim says, as if he can hear Dean’s thoughts. 

Dean nods once, and sees the sky outside lightening even more. “No doubt Sammy’ll have food ready once we’re done here,” he says. Every year since Sam was old enough to choose not to suffer through vigil, he’d stayed home and had breakfast ready for Da and Dean both. Dean has missed that, these last All Hallows. “You’re more than welcome to break fast with us, Father.” 

Jim smiles and the expression lifts ten years off of his weary face. “I’d like that, Dean, so long as t’would be no imposition.” 

“None at all,” Dean says firmly. 

\--

They stay another hour, Jim moving up into Dean’s pew and sitting next to him. Neither of them say another word, instead choosing to spend the last hour of the vigil in a silence that seems soothing, as if the Blessed Virgin Herself has breathed fortifying reassurance into the air. 

Dean finally stands and stretches, joints popping and bones cracking, when the younger priest emerges from a side door, lifting his hands in benediction. Jim stands, nods his thanks, and turns to Dean, gesturing at the door in a silent ‘after you.’ Dean kneels and genuflects once he’s in the aisle, crosses himself with Holy Water as he leaves. He and Jim are standing in front of the church a few minutes later, breathing in the morning air, when one of the cars passing by slows down. 

Dean’s heart skips a beat and he drops to the ground, pulling Jim with him, but it’s not fast enough. Bullets rain across the space where they had been standing, the ones aimed at Dean going into the church building, the ones aimed at Jim hitting the priest as he falls awkwardly to one side. 

“Oh, God,” Dean mutters, pulling at Jim’s cassock to see where the bullets hit. “Oh, Mother of God, _Jim_.” He’s close to tears by the time the other priest comes out of the church, going on about an ambulance, about the police, and Dean can hear sirens in the distance when Jim opens his eyes and gives Dean a troubled smile. 

“Ye have to leave, Dean,” he says, then coughs. Blood spatters across Dean’s face. “Ye have to get your brother and leave, as fast as ye can, Dean. Promise me. Don’t stay, don’t wait, just get in that thrice-cursed car of your father’s and leave. _Now._ ” 

The other priest makes some token protests, and Dean’s about ready to join him in that, but Jim fixes stern eyes on him, eyes that remind Dean so much of his father, and says, “Dean. Do this for me. Stay alive and keep your brother alive.” He coughs again, chokes. “Our hope lies in, in the life of the world to come,” Jim says, blood flecking at the corners of his mouth. “Ye and your brother, ye are that life. _Go._ ” 

Dean runs. 

\--

Sam meets him at the door, eyes dark and shadowed. “We have to leave,” Sam says, in lieu of anything else. 

“I know,” Dean says, heading straight for the bedroom and the few things he’d left scattered around it and the bathroom earlier that day. “I was about to. Wait. How’d ye know?” 

“The _oenaig na samna_ ,” Sam says, standing at the doorway to the bedroom. “There were. Well. We can talk about that in the car. How’d _you_ know?” 

Dean nods once, tight, and is shoving his toothbrush and razor into a bag as he asks, “Ye pack already?” 

He doesn’t need to look at his brother to know that Sam’s nodding now. “Already loaded up. How’d you know, Dean?” 

Dean brushes past Sam, out into the kitchen, and asks, “Ye have _everything_? We aren’t coming back.” Sam gestures at the apartment and Dean looks around for the first time since he got back from the church. The plants are all gone, so are the tapestries; Dean doesn’t know what’s happened to them. The books that are missing, though, he bets those are in the backseat of the Impala, along with some of the food, the laptop. 

“Is that,” Sam says, stepping forward, hands on Dean’s shoulders, turning Dean slightly to face the window. One hand moves, traces down the front of Dean’s shirt, fingertips just barely brushing against the cloth. “Dean, is that _blood_?”

“Come on,” Dean says, batting Sam’s hand away. Sam reaches up again, and Dean closes his hand around Sam’s wrist, squeezing enough so that Sam’s eyes move from the bloodstains to Dean’s eyes. “We need to leave.”

Sam bites his lip, looks away, and Dean rubs his thumb over Sam’s skin for a brief moment before letting go. Dean heads for the door without hesitation and he’s through it, in the hallway, watching as Sam looks the apartment over for the last time. He has no idea what Sam’s thinking, but Sam’s face looks carved out of stone when Sam finally moves and locks the place up tight behind them. 

It’s not until they’re on opposite sides of the car with the doors open that Dean looks over the top of the Impala and says, “Jim’s dead. He came here, held vigil with me. They got him on the steps.” Sam’s face turns white and his eyes scan the street. “He said there were things he wanted to talk to us about. Now that he can’t, there’s only one person left who can.” 

They leave Palo Alto and don’t look back, heading for Bobby.

\--

"The _oenaig na samna_ ," Dean finally says, on the road and heading east. "Tell me what happened." 

Sam hums, shifts. Dean glances over and realises that Sam looks uncomfortable. He wonders if it's the metal of the Impala and gets a headache when he remembers: this is Dub Sainglend. How can one of Cúchulainn's horses be made out of Detroit steel when it's fae? 

"The legend of Ceridwen's cauldron," Sam says. "You remember it?" 

Dean snorts. "Hard to forget, all those lessons Da hammered into our skulls. She made a potion to give Afagddu wisdom except Gwion stirred too fast. It splashed on him, he sucked it off his hand, and ended up stealing the wisdom. Ceridwen was bloody well furious with him. What's that got to do with anything?" 

Sam lifts a hand, rubs his forehead. He looks tired, worn. Neither of them have slept much since Dean arrived in California, Sam even less than Dean. "The potion that was left, no one ever talked about it. It was supposed to turn into poison, a deadly poison." 

"Supposed to?" Dean asks. His stomach twists, guessing where this is going. "But it didn't, did it. Something happened. All the stories follow Ceridwen's chase of Gwion and don't say anything about the potion. Who drank it?" 

"Morda did," Sam says. He stops there, clearly waiting.

Dean frowns, tries to remember the specifics of that legend. Da always spent more time on Cúchulainn and Conchobar; Dean's not sure if his memory's any good. "Morda," he says, slowly. "The blind man who kept watch on the fire?" 

Sam hums; he's staring down at his hands when Dean glances over. "Something happened to him, something awful," Sam says. "One of my brothers was at the _oenaig na samna_ ; he made it in from Wales just in time," Sam says. 

Dean wants to snarl at the thought of Sam claiming any other kin but he shivers instead, recalling Meg's eyes and the way her voice sounded like Sam's, ringing bells sighing in time with the wind.

"He almost died trying to get the information but when we took everything he found along with everything that Rameel already knew, it makes too much sense," Sam goes on. "We don't know if Morda drank it or bathed in it or what, and we don't know _why_ , but whatever the potion did, it didn't kill him. It made him something else, something _other_ , something like a _leanan sídhe_ but less discriminate and not at all friendly. He attacked Ceridwen's husband and daughter, changed them somehow. The three of them left Wales and roamed England, turning some and killing others." 

Dean thinks Sam's going to say more but, when his brother doesn't, he asks, "Something like vampires, aye? That's what it sounds like you're saying." 

Sam shifts, nods. "Something like it. Immortal like the fae and they've been turning people into -- Rameel calls them the Wrong Ones. What they've become, it's _evil_ , Dean, not to mention English. Ceridwen's potion was magic; it was fatal to their humanity but it gave them the ability to tap into the ley lines under Lyonesse. That changed them even more, gave them power equal to a fae's, but power that's tainted, that thrives on death and destruction."

What it must have taken for the UVF and their allies to deal with the Wrong Ones, Dean doesn't want to know. Of course, saying that, he wouldn't want to imagine what it might have taken to ally with the fair folk. "What does it have to do with us?" Dean asks. "There has to be a reason or ye wouldn't have brought it up." 

"We think," Sam says before stopping. He lifts a hand, pinches the bridge of his nose and shifts like he's uncomfortable, maybe even feeling guilty. "We think the Wrong Ones lured Ma out, somehow. Got her into the right position for Da to fire the Winchester and kill her. We think they guessed that if she died at his hands, he'd leave. We don't know, though. Not for certain." 

Dean weighs that statement against what he knows of his father. John's not one to leave a fight unfinished, especially one that he believes in and has sacrificed so much for. If one of those sacrifices was his wife, though, the love of his life? Dean can almost see the argument. 

It hurts to think of, both his mother's death and the way that their whole family may have been manipulated, so Dean changes the subject, asks, "Who's Rameel? And does this mean the Wrong Ones have half-human children, too? And why the bloody hell are they in this country if they get their power from Lyonesse?" 

"This was an English nation before the Irish came over," Sam says. "English blood's scattered all over the East Coast; that's why I ran to California when I left. And we're not sure about offspring. We hope they can't reproduce," Sam says. He pointedly stops there. 

Dean takes a deep breath, says, "Sam. Tell me who Rameel is." 

Sam looks straight ahead, out of the window. "My father," he says.

\--

They get to Bobby's without issue, cross the salt lines at the edge of his property and park in front of a ramshackle house. Bobby runs a salvage yard these days and Dean's contemplating the old Chryslers in one corner as two dogs come running around the side of the house, barking and growling. 

Dean gets out, drops to a knee and holds out his hands. The dogs come close, dancing as they dart in to sniff him and then back out of range to digest his scent. Dean gives them a look, says, "Come on, ye bleeding idiots," and they pounce on him, licking his face. Dean laughs, lets them push him down and rolls on the ground with them, playing and petting and scratching. 

He's always loved dogs but his Da would never allow pets. Sam never complained about that; watching as Sam gets out of the car and the dogs freeze, slink away whining, he figures out why. 

"What're they smelling, Sam?" someone calls out. Dean gets off the ground, brushes dirt off of his jeans before looking at the house. Bobby's standing on the porch, dogs behind his legs, gun in his hands. It's not just any gun, either; Bobby's got a Winchester rifle and it looks loaded, ready to fire. 

Dean moves without thinking, ends up in front of his brother, staring at Bobby. He shakes his head when Sam nudges him to get out of the way, snaps out, "No, Sam," when Sam asks him to move. 

"I'd be listening to that _bhastaird páiste_ ," Bobby spits out. 

Dean gapes, stunned at the vitriol in Bobby's voice. He lets Sam push him to one side, watches helplessly as Sam steps forward. The dogs whine, high in their throats, and show their bellies. Bobby's grip on the gun tightens, knuckles turning white. 

The man Dean's thought of as an uncle for years glares at Sam, snarls, " _Imeacht gan teacht ort agús titim gan éirí ort._ "

"Bobby," Dean breathes. He's shocked. Bobby knows the power of curses, especially that one. Dean doesn't think he's ever heard his father say that, even about the UVF. "How can. Ye can't _say_ that, not to Sam. He's my brother."

"He's a fae bastard, Dean," Bobby says. His eyes are fixed on Sam. "I'll talk to ye, but not that, that, that _thing_." 

Dean bares his teeth and doesn't flinch when Sam puts a hand on Dean's arm, though it's a close thing. He turns his head, one eye still on Bobby, and swallows hard when he sees Sam's eyes: green the colour of Eire, shot through with the gold of midday sun, his pupils swirling. 

"Talk to him," Sam says, too softly for Bobby to hear. "I'll be back in an hour." Dean says his brother's name, stops when Sam shakes his head. "It's no use," he says. With a quirk of his lips, Sam adds, "He's right, after all. I am a fae bastard. I'll take the car and go into town, round up some supplies. I should call Meg and see if Tom's said anything more about his trip to Wales, too." Dean doesn't move, just lets out a breath, and Sam says, "Please, Dean. Go on." 

"If ye aren't back in an hour," Dean says. 

Sam nods, leans forward and presses his lips to Dean's cheek. "I'll be back. Someone has to keep an eye on you." 

Dean wraps his arms around Sam, holds on tight until Sam slips out of his grasp, gets into the car and drives away. 

"Come on then, lad," Bobby calls out. When Dean looks, he sees the rifle held easily in one hand, the dogs prancing impatiently on the porch. 

Sam's gone in a cloud of dust. Dean starts walking toward the house. 

\--

He doesn't let Bobby touch him, not even when the man clearly wants to give Dean a hug. Dean keeps his distance and Bobby doesn't push it, just hands Dean a lager and sits down on one side of the wobbly kitchen table. Dean takes the chair opposite, eyes on Bobby, and waits for Bobby to drink before Dean will. 

"He's not your brother," Bobby says. "Not that ye need to claim him."

"I'd leave that alone if I were ye," Dean warns. He sets the can of lager down, pushes it away from him with two fingers, a clear sign. 

Bobby sighs, leans back and looks down at his hands. "Dean." 

" _Enough_ , Bobby," Dean says. Iron's in his voice; he thinks of the fae, of the wind in their words, the ringing bells, wonders if it means anything that his voice is firm and unyielding when Sam's is so fluid. "We came here because Jim died before he could tell us anything. Da's missing and I've nearly been killed twice, all right? The only good thing that's happened in the past two weeks is me going to California and finding Sam alive and well. I'm not leaving him now, not when I've just got him back again, ye hear me? Tell me what I need to know, what ye and Da know and Jim died trying to tell me, and we'll leave ye be." 

For a moment, it looks as if Bobby's going to argue. Dean sees the moment that he decides not to, though, sees it and relaxes a little. He won't tolerate it, not from a man close as family, a man who left Eire and came over to America with them. 

"I don't know what Jim was going to tell you," Bobby says, "but I can tell you what I know. The intel we had on the hit that killed your mam, from Seán MacBride. It was bad -- not the original details but what finally reached your father's ears. It came through too many people. One of our unit's old contacts got in touch with Jim a while back, told us that one of the men responsible for passing the message along was a Loyalist spy. He had time and opportunity to change things enough so that your Da would be somewhere else." 

Dean swallows. "And Ma?" 

Bobby sighs, says, "She was ne'er supposed to be there, Dean. No one from our side told her, no one from the other side, not that we know of." 

Unsure if Bobby knows anything about the Wrong Ones, Dean doesn't raise the subject or the fair folks' theory. It would make sense, though, that the Wrong Ones and the UVF both would want Mary Owen dead: one fae princeling born, potentially able to bear and carry more to full term. If they could draw her out and the Loyalist had placed John in the right place to kill her, to mourn her and leave Eire...

It's an easy solution, beautiful in its simplicity. It feels like it fits, like little else has in the past three days.

"What happened to the Loyalist?" he asks. 

Bobby's jaw clenches and he doesn't answer. That's good enough. Hopefully it wasn't quick. 

"Dean," Bobby says, finally meeting Dean's eyes. "Ye must. John brought ye to this country to get away from what we did. He'd not want ye involved." 

Dean's grin is wry, not at all amused. "I think it's a tad bit late for that, Bobby. Da's gone, my home's gone, Sam's home isn't safe for him anymore, and everything I once thought true, well. I'm waiting to find out who else has lied to me and what about. Where's Da, Bobby? Ye have to have some idea." 

Bobby turns, looks at his dogs. "Aye," he says. "Aye, I might do." 

\--

Dean walks to the edge of Bobby's property, sits on the fence and lets his feet swing. There isn't much traffic, not all the way out here, so when he sees a car coming his way, he stands up, squints his eyes and tries to see who it might be. The car's smaller than the Impala, a different colour, so it can't be Sam and Bobby hadn't said anything about visitors when Dean left the house with a wave over his shoulder. 

Already on edge, Dean's heart speeds up, adrenaline starting to rush through his body. He stands, gets ready to run, but the car gets closer and Dean sees Sam sitting in the passenger seat. A girl's driving the car, looks like she has blonde hair, if what's whipping out her window is any indication. 

She slams the brakes before she gets to Bobby's salt line, tires squealing as they try to lock. The car shoots up a cloud of dust and Sam gets out first, hand waving around his face to clear the air. 

Dean strides over to his brother, puts his hands on Sam's cheek and turns Sam's head this way and that. "All right?" he asks, fierce. "Sam, are ye all right?" 

"I'm fine," Sam says. He lifts his hands, holds Dean's wrists but doesn't try to force Dean away. In a small part of Dean's mind, he wonders if Sam needs the reassurance as much as he does. "And you? What did Bobby say?" 

"Bobby Singer, aye?" the girl asks. She's out of the car when Dean turns to look, standing there with her hands on her hips. "A good shot in a pinch and a soft man when it counted. What did he have to say?"

Dean flinches; her eyes are the colour of coal and patterns of holly and ivy are writhing over her face. "What," he says. "What are ye?" 

"Call me Ruby," she answers. Her voice lilts, reminds Dean of a summer rainstorm in Eire, creeping unexpectedly out of afternoon sunshine, brilliant and bright to look at but cold to the touch. "And I'm fae, o' course." 

"Full fae," Sam says, the muscles of his face moving under Dean's hands. "Like Rameel and Meg, not half like me."

Dean lets go of Sam, studies this Ruby. He'd thought Meg was a halfling like Sam but she had the same eyes as Ruby does and could be Sam's half-sister, sharing the same father. "Why are ye here?" he asks Ruby. She smiles, a sharp expression that reminds Dean of every story about the fae he's ever heard, the ones that speak of changelings and tricks, the ones that say the fae are caught between angel and demon, trapped in their _tuatha_ by bards and poets for Eire's safety. He frowns, asks again, "Why are ye here, fae?"

"Because the people of this land are willing to believe," she says. Dean scowls and Ruby shrugs. "Ye were nae clear on the question, Dean. As for why I'm here, in this place? Dub Sainglend wanted a journey and Sam wanted to get back to ye. Ye'll be pleased to know he is nae able to travel the way we do." 

With that, Ruby inclines her head in Sam's direction and seems to lose mass, skin and bones turning translucent, then dissolving into a pile of holly which sinks into the ground a moment later. 

Dean blinks. He looks at Sam. 

"I'm too human for that," Sam says, looks sheepish but unapologetic. 

Relief floods Dean's bones. Sam's expression turns guarded; he looks away. 

"What happened to Dub -- to the Impala?" Dean asks, cursing himself. "He wanted a journey, that what the fae said?" Sam nods, still looking away, at the car Ruby drove up in. It's an import, something from Italy, small and fast and green, the colour of Sam's eyes. "And where on God's green earth did she get _that_?" 

Sam glances back at Dean. "Italy's Catholic," he says. "Just like those the fair folk allied with. And Meg took the Impala. We're supposed to meet her in a few days; she'll call with details once she knows where." 

Dean takes a breath, leans against the fence. "Sam," he says, careful. "What's going on? Everything's moving so fast. Meg took the car, there are fae driving ye around and disappearing into the ground when they're done, and Bobby said that. Bobby said a Loyalist sold Da out but he's never heard why Ma was where she was. Why ye? Why _us_? There are more halflings than ye alone; I could see it if ye were the only one, but," he says, trailing off. 

"You called me a fae princeling," Sam says, turning around to face Dean. He's guarded, still, looks as though he's holding himself, preparing for rejection, for something to hurt. 

Dean pushes off the fence, closes the distance to Sam, reaches out and takes one of Sam's hands. He rubs his thumb over Sam's pulse-point, reassures himself with the fluttering of Sam's blood moving through veins, human enough for a heartbeat, for the nerves which are making his skin clammy. 

"Tell me," Dean murmurs. They're close enough for that to be loud enough, almost too loud. "Please. I. Ye left once, Sam, and Da and I were idiots to let that go on as long as it did, the way it did. I was wrong. I'll never do it again. But please, ye need to tell me what we're dealing with." 

"You called me a fae princeling," Sam says, repeating himself. "You were closer than you knew."

Dean freezes. "Rameel," he says, has to clear his throat. "Rameel's a king? A fae king?" 

Sam's eyes shutter over. "He's one of the rulers of the kithland, yes. There are half a dozen others but Rameel's the one who answered the call of those at the Drombeg circle. And it's us, because." He trails off. Dean's eyes turn pleading and Sam asks, "Remember when Meg and I were telling you what happened? The children that the fae fathered, we have gifts to use, to stop the English and the Wrong Ones. There's more to what we are than the ability to look fae and fairy-lock doors."

"Your gift is a good one," Dean guesses. "Because of who sired ye."

"Aye." Sam's wary, waiting for something. 

Dean doesn't say anything right away, just presses himself even closer to Sam. Their breathing rhythm syncs, inhale-exhale, a little faster than normal, a little tighter. "Tell me," Dean whispers. "Sam, please. _Tell me_."

Sam pulls away, tries to, but Dean holds on, tight enough to make Sam grimace and give up. When it's clear that Dean isn't letting go, Sam says, "Each of Rameel's children have one of the major fae gifts whether they're full-blooded or not. Meg can call shadows and order them about. Tom can travel like the fae, through earth and wind and light and fire. One of the others can shape-change, another can heal, still another can talk to animals, another to nature. I." Sam stops there, can't meet Dean's eyes. "My gift is different. I see death, Dean, in every one of her incarnations. And I can call her."

" _Daoine sídhe_ ," Dean says, stunned. "My brother's a _daoine sídhe_. Mother and saints, Sam, you're." 

He stops there, feels Sam trying to get away again. Without thinking, Dean yanks Sam closer, steps up to press his lips to Sam's forehead, a benediction of sorts, the way their father used to send them off to school, to welcome them home. 

Sam freezes, doesn't move, even when Dean steps back, looks Sam over. 

"Ye don't _look_ much like one," Dean says, considerately. Sam's eyes narrow, seems as if all thoughts of running have been forgotten in the dirt. "I mean, I would've thought there'd be some sign. But ye still look like Sam to me. Are ye sure ye have the right of it?" 

Exasperation flood Sam's eyes, that and not a little amount of sadness, as if this was a secret he never wanted to share. "Why do you think they've come after us so much?" he asks. "It's my fault they killed Ma, my fault that Da's gone missing, my fault you nearly died, and twice at that."

"For as smart as ye can be, Sam," Dean says slowly, "there are times ye can be an idiot, ye know that? If it weren't for the damned English, none of this would ever have happened. Ye want to blame someone, blame them. Have ye killed anyone yet?"

"No," Sam answers. "But I can." His face is set, stubborn determination written all over his features. "Once you brought word of the troubles, Rameel unlocked my gift."

Dean studies his brother, takes careful note of the way Sam's locked his jaw, then nods, once. "Bobby told me where we might find Da. Let's go. And if there are any of the Wrong Ones lurking about, I expect ye to kill them, just like I expect ye to kill the bloody UVF before they have the chance to shoot at us. Aye?" 

Sam's smile looks fae, something not entirely of this world. "Aye." 

\--

Bobby's intel leads them to a remote campground on Blackwater Ridge, just outside of Grand Junction, Colorado. Nothing's there except for a feeling; Dean gets goosebumps, has to fight the urge to lie on the ground and cover his neck in case of debris. 

"What is it?" Dean asks. "That. It isn't _right_ , Sam." 

"One of the Wrong Ones," Sam says, voice echoing with the rush of the wind. He looks around, scans an entire three hundred and sixty degrees, finally turns back to their side and stares at the space between the trees. "It's close. Watching us, I think. If any of their allies are near, it'll be calling them." 

Dean follows Sam's gaze, squints. He can't see anything but he'll remember this feeling for next time. There will be a next time, he's sure of that, and a time after that, and a time after that, until all of Eire is free and united. "Why isn't it coming after us?"

Sam's smile looks raw and merciless. "It won't kill us unless there aren't any humans to do the job. Something about the agreement the UVF made with Morda." 

"We," Dean says, "are bound by no such treaty." 

\--

They settle in a clearing, close to the campground Bobby told them about. There's no noise, not even crickets; it's against Dean's gut instinct to stay put but he does. While he makes a fire, Sam's kneeling on the dirt, tracing out symbols. They look like ogham; it's been too long for Dean to remember much of what Paddy taught them but he picks out the words for 'oak' and 'thorn.' Sam draws a circle around the words when he's done and they sink into the ground, disappearing. 

"Who's that going to?" Dean asks. 

"Ruby," Sam replies. Dean scowls at the thought of her. "You'll have to get used to her, Dean. She's my main contact with the full-blooded fae. She'll help us." 

Dean snorts, mutters, "Doesn't mean I have to like her." Something about her just, just _irritated_ him, rubbed him the wrong way, for all that he's only spent a few minutes in her presence. Still, he doesn't say another word about her, not even as Sam's drawing out a circle of protection around their campsite. 

"What's the plan?" Dean asks. "We don't have food or weapons and I, for one, hate camping." 

Sam grins over his shoulder at Dean, says, "Don't think I've forgotten that. No, the fire's just to highlight our position and the circle's to keep them from surprising us. As soon as any of the UVF or the Wrong One gets close enough for me to see, I'll take care of it." 

The grin fades at that; Dean had been expecting Sam to sober up. It's one thing to know how to kill a man, it's another entirely to do it, to steal the power of life from God and feel it in your own hands. Dean doesn't envy his brother for his gift, wishes he had a weapon, any kind of weapon, so he could help Sam. 

A rustle on the ground and they both move; it takes a moment to realise that it's coming from inside the circle. The wind howls past Dean, curls around Sam and plays with his hair, noise dropping from a howl to a croon. Sam relaxes into the breeze, lets his eyelids drift downwards. 

"Ava," Sam says. "The one who can talk to nature. She's passing a message along." 

Sam stops there and Dean says, "Aye? Well, tell me, then. What's the message?" 

There's a frown on Sam's face, then his eyes fly open and he reaches for Dean, yanks him down. They both tumble to the ground; a moment later, Dean sees a figure on the edge of the circle opposite their position. He can't breathe, the feeling of utter _wrongness_ from before crawling down his spine. A whorl of wildflowers shivers and then grows upward inside the circle; Dean catches a glimpse of blonde hair before Sam's telling him to stay down and shut up.

Never one to follow orders, especially from Sam, Dean rolls away from his brother, looks up. The Wrong One on the other side of the line, it's _hideous_. It's kept a vaguely humanoid shape but looks elongated, eight feet tall and stick-thin, rotted flesh hanging off of its bones in long, paper-like stripes. Dean stares, eyes fixed on its claws, long and sharp, pieces of something like gristle caught on jagged edges. He feels like something is squeezing his lungs slowly, ready to peel him apart and eat him, layer by layer. 

A crushing tension shakes the circle; Dean puts his hands over his ears and grits his teeth. Ruby has a gun, she tosses it to Dean with a look of disdain, mouths, 'Get down and shut up!' A moment later, the Wrong One explodes in a rush of wind and flame that has Dean's ears popping from the pressure. Flakes of skin and chunks of bone hit the edge of the circle and catch fire before bouncing away.

When Dean looks up, everything done, Sam is breathing hard, cheeks flushed and hands trembling. 

"That wasn't too hard, was 't?" Ruby asks, putting an arm around Sam's waist and drawing him close. She croons; Dean thinks they're nonsense words until he sees that Sam's listening. "Ye did well, Sam. Your Da will be pleased." 

"Who was that?" Sam asks, in a tone of voice that Dean has never heard come from his brother before. It has the weight of power in it, the force of a man who has killed and will kill again, now that he has measured the price of such an action. "Ruby, which one was that? Before he died, who was he?" 

She scoffs, disentangles herself from Sam. "A nobody, Sam. And one that needed killing. I'll take the message of this to your Da." She pauses and Dean watches as a sly smile crosses her lips, coal black eyes glinting in the wake of burning flesh. "He'll want an inking, Sam. Shall I tell him to find ye, when ye go to Meg?"

Sam stiffens and Ruby laughs as she swirls into blue blossoms and falls back into the ground. 

"God's name, Sam," Dean breathes. "What just happened?" 

Sam doesn't look at Dean as he answers. "I've killed a Wrong One."

Dean makes a noise. "Aye, Sam, I got that. What did Ruby mean about the inking? And what's the deal with this gun?"

He lifts the weapon, lets Sam take it and study it. "One of our relics," Sam finally says. "Fragarach, if I had to guess. How she got this, I don't know. I don't know why she gave it to you, either, but be careful with it."

Sam offers the gun back and Dean takes it carefully, resisting the urge to wave it about and see if it can actually put the wind under his control like the legend says. He tucks it into his jeans, waits for the feel of it to become natural, settled against his skin, and then asks, "And my other question, Sam? What did Ruby mean about the inking?"

"My," Sam says, stops and says, instead, "Rameel will wish to put the sign of this on my skin, so all the fae will know."

Dean blinks. "The old Irish only inked their heirs, Sam. When ye said princeling, ye meant _crown_ princeling." Sam doesn't disagree. Dean sits down, cold from the dirt seeping up through his jeans; stares at Sam. "My brother is heir to a fae. Heir to one of the fae kithland rulers. My _brother_." Sam's back is stiff, unyielding. Dean shakes himself from his stupor and says, "Would've thought there'd be some sign. _Seriously_. The ability to keep a clean room, say, or drive, or proper music appreciation."

Sam turns, stares at Dean just as much as Dean had been staring at Sam a moment earlier. "You aren't," he starts to say. 

"'M just saying," Dean shrugs, "ye have the _worst_ taste in music of anyone I've ever met. The poor fair folk have their work cut out for them." 

It doesn't look like Sam knows how to take that. 

Dean stands, goes over to his brother and smacks Sam's head. As Sam's leaning away and frowning, rubbing his head, Dean says, "Ye cannot think, _honestly_ , that something as little as that would send me away. Sam, you're my _brother_. And now that I have a gun and the Wrong One here is gone, we need to find out where Da is. I take it there's nothing here to tell us?" 

Sam rolls his eyes. "Ava was trying to tell me when the Wrong One and Ruby showed up. Da left us a message here, one Ava managed to get before the Wrong One destroyed it. We're supposed to go up to Wisconsin. There's a boy there who was fathered by a fae." Sam pauses, adds with a brittle smile, "He can read the future. If we can get him to talk to us, we can ask him where Da is." 

"Well," Dean says, kicking out the fire and breaking the circle. "What are ye waiting for? Come on." 

\--

The child's name is Lucas. He takes one look at Sam and bursts into tears. Sam turns white and engages Lucas' mother, a woman named Andrea, in some harmless conversation while Dean heads for the kid. Sam has never sounded less Irish and more East Coast, less fae and more human, less working-class and more middle-class. Dean glances at Lucas, sitting next to him, and nods his head toward Sam. 

"Ye have to understand, Lucas," he says. The kid isn't watching Dean but it's clear that Lucas is listening. "Sam? He's one of the good guys, like ye. Like me. All we're trying to do is find our Da." 

"Your Da," Lucas whispers, sniffling. "Why do you want to find him so badly?" 

Dean shrugs. "He's my Da." Lucas looks at him, the skepticism of years he's too young to have witnessed caught in his eyes. "Okay, sure. He's my Da but there's more to it." Dean glances up at Sam and Andrea, nods as Sam flicks his eyes to Dean and raises an eyebrow. "Your Ma, she ever tell you about her heritage?" 

"Where she came from, you mean," Lucas says. Dean nods; Lucas shakes his head. "She's Irish."

"And your Da?" Dean asks, carefully. 

Lucas' face closes down. Dean doesn't push, just waits, and eventually the kid says, "He's dead." Dean frowns and Lucas goes on. "Mom told me about him but I never. I mean, he died while she was pregnant. She doesn't talk about him much."

Dean licks his lips. He doesn't know if the mortal Andrea loved -- married, if the ring she's wearing has anything to do with it -- died ignorant of her adultery or if she never married and simply told Lucas a convenient lie, wearing the ring as a pretense, but he won't disregard her words, not in front of her son. "Did she tell ye how?" 

"No," Lucas says, staring down at his hands. "Just that he died. I wish." Lucas stops; Dean waits a moment, then makes an enquiring noise. "I wish I'd known him. I wish I knew if he was the one who." 

This time, Dean's sure that the kid isn't going to keep going. "I thought Sam was my brother all his life," Dean says. "Until a week ago, and then he told me that he's part fae, that we're only half-brothers. His eyes are as green as yours are blue, and I bet when ye see things, when ye do something that ye can't explain, yours get shot through with silver, like the moon, right? Ye've always been able to see the future, see what's going to happen. And ye've never told anyone."

Lucas swallows. "Not even my mom," he says, almost too quiet to hear. 

"There's nothing wrong with that," Dean says, nudging Lucas with his shoulder. "Sam. Sam was the same way. He never told any of us. Ye have to be careful, after all. Now, can ye tell me why ye took one look at Sam and started crying?" 

"He shines," Lucas says. The boy rubs his eyes, says, "He _shines_ when I look at him. He's so _bright_." 

Dean grins, drops his head. "Lucas, I'll bet my car that ye shine just as brightly."

Lucas goes wide-eyed at that, stares at Dean like that couldn't possibly be true. That, or Lucas doesn't believe Dean would ever wager his car for anything. Of course, Lucas thinks that the green import is Dean's and has never seen the Impala. More's the pity or he'd know just how serious Dean is. 

"Your dad," Lucas finally says. "He's trying to hide but he's on the move. The coverings he has, the, the cloak, it, it slips every so often. It can't keep up with him."

Dean swallows, meets Lucas' gaze head-on and sees the boy's pupils swirling like a whirlpool. "Where's he going to be?" 

Lucas smiles, looks at Sam and narrows his eyes as if he's looking into the sun. "He's important, isn't he," Lucas says. "He's someone special." 

Dean looks up, looks at his brother. "Aye, Lucas. Aye, he is."

"He'll be at your old house in two weeks," Lucas said. "Your dad. And someone named Meg, one that shines? You should meet with her first. She'll be in Indiana. I don't know where, exactly, but someone else will let you know." 

"Thank ye, Lucas," Dean says, standing up. He holds out his hand, lets the kid shake it with an air of solemnity. "Ye've been a help to us." Dean pauses, reaches out and ruffles Lucas' hair. "May the road rise to meet ye and may Pádraig guide ye as ye walk on it." 

Lucas smiles, a lopsided expression, and murmurs, "Someone else told me that once." Dean pauses, grin slipping for a moment. Lucas shakes his head, says, "Sorry."

Dean wants to ask, wants to push, but he doesn't, not with the way Lucas' eyes are glowing, cat-like bright and just the slightest bit cold. Instead, he nods, joins Sam and Andrea. She's in the middle of a sentence and stops as Dean joins them, her eyes moving past Dean to settle on Lucas, now drawing on his sketch-pad, tongue caught between his lips. 

"You two seemed to get along," she says. 

"He's a good kid," Dean says, and ignores the question implicit in her statement. "Seems like ye two hit it off, as well."

She starts at Dean's accent, stares at him for a moment. Dean waits, patiently, and she flushes, looks away. "You sounded like." She turns, makes sure Lucas is busy drawing and isn't paying them any attention. "You sounded like his father," she says. "And here I thought Sam reminded me of him more than you." 

Dean glances at his brother, catches Sam's eyes for a split-second before they both turn back to Andrea. "Eire's a beautiful land," Dean says, "and Eire's sons carry her in them, no matter how far away they are." 

Andrea nods and the three of them stand there in silence, Andrea's gaze fixed firmly on her son, before Dean and Sam make their apologies and leave. 

\--

"Should I've given ye two some time?" Dean asks, once they're back in the car and heading toward a state highway or interstate out of the Lake Manitoc area. "Only it looked as if ye could've put the time to good use."

Sam snorts, shifts in his seat to turn towards Dean. "And you," he says. "She loved the accent. What did Lucas say?"

Dean sighs, checks the rear-view and wishes, not for the first time, that he had the Impala back. "He said we have to be back home in two weeks. Da will be there. Before that, we have to meet up with Meg somewhere in Indiana, though Lucas said someone would let us know where. Seeing as we're six hours from the Indiana border, is there anywhere we should go first?"

"St. Louis," Sam says, after a moment's thought. He looks at Dean, says, "St. Louis," again. "Is that too far out of the way? Should only take us, what, eight, nine, hours to get there? And it can't be more than four to get back to Indianapolis."

"What's in St. Louis?" Dean asks. A second later, he adds, "And how do ye know that? How long it'll take to get from one to the other, I mean." 

Sam says, "I don't s'pose you'll accept it was a guess?" Dean snorts and Sam says, "Aye, I didn't think so." As Dean turns onto entrance ramp for I-39, Sam toes his shoes off. "I have friends in St. Louis: Becky and Zach Warren." 

Dean opens his mouth, shuts it, looks at Sam out of the corner of his eyes. He can't help himself, has to ask, "Like rabbits?" Sam rolls his eyes. "Okay, fine, not like rabbits. They married?" Underneath is the question, _are they fair folk_?

"Brother and sister," Sam says. "Human and Irish as well. Becky's a mythographer, of sorts, and Zach's a botanist." 

"Botanist," Dean parrots. "Really?" 

Sam grins. "Really." He must be able to tell Dean's not keen to run a few hours out of their way just to meet some of Sam's friends, because the next thing he says goes a long way toward changing Dean's mind. "They have a gorgeous house, big with lots of spare rooms. And Becky can whip up a mean _cál ceannann_."

Dean weighs the idea of warm beds and fresh food against less than ten hours in the car. 

When they get to the I-39/I-55 split in Bloomington, he makes sure to switch interstates and head southwest towards St. Louis.

\--

Becky turns out to be a cute little blonde, similar to Ruby in looks but wholly different in personality. It might have something to do with the ink smeared all over her hands, the fly-away strands of hair coming out of her braid, the smile on her face that echoes in her eyes, warm and friendly and genuinely pleased to see Sam. Dean finds himself grinning at her exuberance, the way she tugs Sam down and still has to stand on her tip-toes to brush his cheek with a kiss. 

Zach, behind her, is smiling as well, but his is more restrained, a tinge of worry deep in his brown eyes. Dean shakes Zach's hand and lets Becky give him a hug. After a dinner of Dublin Coddle and blaa, with currant baps and chocolate cake for afters, Dean sits back on his guest-room bed and says, "Zach didn't look happy to see ye." 

Sam's standing at the window, back with Dean, not in his own room. Sam had come in from the room Becky'd taken him to after they'd both changed into pyjamas and said something about the view; he's been looking out on the back garden and the flowers, trees, in bloom, for the past twenty minutes without a word. "He's worried, that's all," Sam says. 

Dean rolls his eyes. "Aye, that he is. But why would he have cause to be worried, Sam?"

"Because tomorrow I'm going to go into work with him and spend an hour talking to the plants," Sam answers, no hesitation. "He's worried I'm a little mad, except for the fact that me talking to plants has helped him before." Dean asks Sam to explain and Sam looks up, the reflection of his eyes meeting Dean's. "He works at the botanical gardens in the city. The last time I came to visit them, I spent an hour using the plants to get in touch with several of my brothers and sisters. One of the plants was ill and Ava noticed when I was speaking with her. I told Zach and he did what I said even though the senior botanists thought he was imagining things. Ava was right, though." 

"Useful trick, that," Dean notes, "talking through plants. Cheaper than mobiles." 

Sam hums, moves away from the window and sits on the edge of the bed bear Dean's feet. "Becky lives in myths, all of our old stories and legends. She believes a little faster than Zach, has a little more faith." He pauses, adds, quietly, "Neither of them know what I am. No one outside my family does. Well," Sam says, a smile trying to break through the seriousness of his words, "except for whatever you told Lucas. I'll have to keep in touch with him." 

"We both will," Dean says. The words are automatic, something he's thought about since leaving Wisconsin; most of his brain's caught around Sam's confession. No one outside of Sam's family knows what Sam is; that means Sam thinks of the fae as his family just as much as he does Dean, perhaps more as they knew before Dean did. 

That hurts. 

"You're an idiot," Sam says, so matter-of-factly that Dean's nodding before the words really digest. He stops, mid-motion, and glares at his brother. "You think there was ever a time when I didn't want to tell you? Dean, I knew what I was from before I can remember; there's no way I couldn't, not with Da teaching us about our history every night and dragging off to church every moment he could. I didn't tell you because I was, I." 

"Because ye were scared," Dean says, after Sam's trailed off and spent minutes searching for the right words. "Because ye were scared of me." 

Sam reaches over, smacks Dean's leg. "Idiot," he says, fondly. "I was scared you wouldn't love me anymore. Stupid, I know, but I'm _different_. It was more than just a little teenage insecurity, y'know?" 

Dean nods once. "Aye, I know. But I think _ye_ might be the idiot, Sam."

"We both are, then," Sam says. It's as good a peace offering as Dean's ever seen, especially with night coming through the window, the soft mattress under Dean, the promise of a long, boring day at the gardens watching Sam's back tomorrow. Sam cocks his head in question and Dean sighs, a martyred, exaggerated sigh. Sam grins, crawls up the mattress and settles down to sleep. 

Dean doesn't even think about turning Sam out, telling Sam to go back to his own room. Instead, he turns out the light and lies down next to his brother. 

\--

It's three days before they get a call from Meg. Dean likes Becky and Zach but he's getting a little bored, watching Sam talk to people through the plants for an hour every morning at the gardens, an hour in the afternoon at the house. Becky's a sweet girl but her head's stuck in the books and Dean's never been one for reading; there's a reason he works in a factory and runs the pub. He can keep up when she talks about the Ulster Cycle but definitely can't when she slides sideways into terms like 'mythopoetics' and 'Bakhtinian polyphony.' 

Sam's different here, with other people. The Warrens have some claim on Sam, know him from a time when Dean was ignoring the hole Sam left in his life, trying to move on and pretend, for all the good it never did, that he was an only child. The things they say, sometimes, the three of them, it makes Dean regret the lost years. 

Still, Sam always looks around for Dean after he's done using the plants. He always turns to Dean and explains every inside joke and does all he can to make sure Dean's included in everything. It goes a long way to soothing the ache. 

When Sam stiffens halfway through dinner, glances at the potted fern in the corner, Dean gets it. He makes up something, gets Sam out of the room, and doesn't care about the looks that he's getting from Becky and Zach. 

Sam drops to his knees in front of a different plant -- the only good thing about sharing a house with a botanist, all the flora around -- and breathes on the leaves. Dean smells something like _home_ , Eire's green hills and the crisp flavour of Jack Frost, the North Wind turning cheeks bright red and a good stout warming bodies from the inside out. 

"Aye, Meg," Sam says. "I hear you. Where are you?" 

Dean waits, listens to one side of the conversation, and merely hums when Sam sits back on his heels and says, "Burkitsville, outside Salem. It's southern, close to I-65, in the middle of apple country. She recommends we avoid the town; something about the lingering taste of a Wrong One."

"We aren't going to have to get rid of another one, are we?" Dean asks, immediately. He still has Fragarach, wrapped up in an old sweatshirt in the trunk, wedged between their duffels. He still doesn't have any answers about it. 

"She said there might be UVF," Sam confesses. "But nothing supernatural. I don't know if that means she took care of it or if it moved on long ago. Either way, it's only humans this time, and only if we aren't careful." 

Dean sighs. He's pretty sure it won't matter if they avoid the town entirely. Something's bound to go wrong. "We'll leave in the morning," he says. "Get on the road early. Should take us about five hours to get there and I'd rather not deal with traffic." 

Sam nods, lets Dean help him up. His knees crack and Sam looks down, stands on one foot and rotates the other ankle. 

Dean reaches out, tucks a strand of Sam's hair behind an ear. "Ye should let your eyes settle before we go back in there," he says. Sam looks up at him, frowning, and Dean gestures. "They haven't gone back to normal yet. Should only take another minute or two." 

"Aye," Sam says. 

\--

Becky waves them off the next morning; Zach's still in bed. 

"Doesn't she ever sleep?" Dean asks, waving as he backs out of the driveway. "She went to bed after we did last night." 

Sam's laugh, thin this early in the morning, nevertheless rings out clear and bright. "She never went to bed, Dean." 

Dean mutters under his breath, something about women and poets and all of Sam's friends being insane. "And we need coffee," he adds, petulant and not caring. 

"I can drive, if you want," Sam offers. At Dean's glare, Sam holds up his hands, says, "Only an idea, Dean. If you're sure you just need coffee, find a bloody Starbucks." 

"Prissy coffee," Dean says, and pulls into the first gas station they come across, lets Sam fill up the car while he goes inside and comes back out with a cup of coffee blacker than Sam's pupils and thicker than tar. Sam grimaces but doesn't say anything, not even when Dean puts on some loud Motörhead and speeds on the interstate. 

\--

They skirt around the outside of Burkitsville and end up nearly running over Meg. Why she's parked on the side of the road, sitting on the trunk, Dean doesn't know and doesn't want to take time to figure out. The area around here, it makes his skin crawl, not as much as Blackwater but he can tell what Meg meant about the feeling of the Wrong One lingering. 

"How were the Warrens?" Meg asks Sam, sliding off of the Impala and tossing the keys at Dean. He catches them, eyes narrowed. Meg's being too nice. 

Sam rolls his eyes, doesn't seem to see anything wrong with how the fae's acting. "They were fine, of course."

Meg grins, a little smile that borders too closely to bloodthirsty for Dean's taste, and says, "I heard ye killed one of the Wrong Ones." She's checking her nails, not looking at Sam, and yet she doesn't seem to miss the way Sam tenses, the sudden change in temperature of the air around Sam. "Don't be like that, brother-mine. Twas just a question. Our father's waiting with ink and needles, though I told him he should be traditional. Ye are closer to fae than mortal, after all." 

Dean tenses this time, wondering what the hell Meg's trying to say. He looks at Sam, sees that Sam's cheeks are white, with the only spots of colour bright and high in his cheeks. Sam's eyes are swirling, gold-threaded green and glowing the way Lucas' did. 

"But mortal enough to die from that," Sam says, low. "Thank you for bringing the Impala back, Meg. We'll be in touch." 

He brushes past her, or tries to; she grabs his arm, glides in front of him. "Sam," she says, the hiss of her 's' snakelike even before the rest of Sam's name settles into a purr. "Are ye just going to leave me? I think I should feel slighted." 

"Better slighted than dead, ye fae bitch," someone else says. Dean whirls around, Fragarach in his hand, but he doesn't have enough time to pull it out of the sweatshirt. He takes in mask and gun, accent and gloves, and then the man's bursting into flame. Dean stumbles backwards, propelled by the rush of heat, and looks at Sam. His brother's even paler but he's standing firm, eyes deep and endless. 

Meg trails her hand down Sam's arm, lets it rest on his chest. "And now ye have the first human kill. As I said, Sam, more fae than mortal." 

She saunters over to the import, gets in, drives away. 

Dean's head is spinning. 

"UVF," Sam says. "He was hiding in the trees. Meg had to know he was there." He pauses, then says, "Dean? I think I'm going to be sick." 

Dean holds his brother's hair while Sam vomits on the side of the road. Neither of them say anything after that; Dean gives Sam the last bottle of water and they get into the Impala, start driving towards Boston and home and, hopefully, their father.


	3. Chapter 3

They take their time crossing Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York. Dean stops in Toledo to see an old friend named Charlie and Sam meets up with a girl named Sarah in up-state New York, an artist friend of his. She's pretty, has a good sense of humour, and is entirely human. Dean likes her, hints that they could stay an extra day, but Sam shakes his head and says, "We should keep going." 

Dean doesn't press the issue and they drive into the neighbourhood late at night, five days to spare before they're supposed to be meeting their father. The windows are boarded up and the house inside is clean; Sam frowns and says, "I thought you said you left right away." 

"I did," Dean replies, just as wary. He takes out Fragarach, runs his fingers over the cross whittled into the handle, the words _In Nomine_ engraved into the barrel, and then slides his hand into position, ready to shoot. 

He goes for the kitchen while Sam checks out the living room. The bowl of milk has been replaced recently, a few drops spilled onto the floor nearby, and the crusts on the sill are fresh, look as though they may be missing a few dainty bites. Dean pauses, noticing a plate on the table, and he goes over, reads the note covering the plate of chocolate-chip cookies. 

"It's all right," he calls out. As soon as Sam enters the kitchen, Dean hands his brother the note, says, "Ellen's a saint." 

"She's always run a good house," Sam says, voice curiously even as he scans the note and hands it back. "It was good of Paddy to call her."

Dean nods, snags a cookie and takes a bite. They aren't even the slightest bit stale. "Aye. And good of her to agree. I don't have to worry about the pub, not with her keeping charge of it." 

Sam's grinning, sly, as he takes a cookie for himself, asking, "And how're you and Jo doing these days?" before taking a bite and turning innocent eyes on Dean. 

A scowl is Dean's only answer. 

\--

The house is quiet, too quiet, so Dean fiddles with the radio until he finds some decent music, lets Bon Jovi fill each room as he starts a load of laundry and Sam starts dinner. Afterwards, when the house smells of fresh linen and boxty, Dean bundles up and heads for the pub, Sam on his heels. 

Sam asks questions about the neighbourhood, who's moved in, who's moved out, what's happened to everyone. The walk goes quickly and they're at the pub in no time at all. Dean pushes the door open and is greeted by a wave of heat and noise so loud after the past few days that he nearly stumbles. Only Sam's hand, pressing on the small of his back, keeps him steady. 

"Dean!" a few of the regulars call out, lifting their glasses in salute. 

Ellen, behind the bar and drying a glass with a green towel, looks up at the noise, smiles when she sees Dean. Her eyes flick behind Dean, edges of her smile dropping when she takes in Sam. 

"I shouldn't have come," Sam murmurs, the words almost lost in the noise as person after person comes over to greet Dean, to welcome him back. Not one of them so much as looks at Sam. 

"Idiot," Dean says, a second before he moves to the bar, sits down on a stool. He's dragged Sam with him, makes sure Sam's sitting down before turning his attention to Ellen. "Ellen, I can't even start to." 

She cuts him off by thumping a pint glass in front of Dean. "Then dinnae waste your breath, lad. Put it to better use and tell me what ye'd like to drink." Dean grins and Ellen reaches across the bar, musses up Dean's hair. 

Dean shrinks back, trying to fix up his hair, and says, "I'll have a Guinness, Ellen. And Sam'll have." He pauses, turns to his brother, asks, "Sam?" 

Ellen's eyes are closed-off as she looks at Sam as well. 

"Wine," Sam says. "House red." He's not smiling. 

Dean nods at Ellen when she glances at him, watches as she moves to get a glass of wine for Sam, to pull a pint for Dean. "Ye could be a bit more open, Sam," he says, elbowing his brother. 

Sam looks down at the bar. "She knows, Dean. Da's told her something. And Ellen's never liked me as much as you, you know that. She's never." Sam stops there but Dean knows what his brother's thinking, that Ellen never took Sam under her wing the way she cared for and watched over almost all of the other neighbourhood boys. Some of it, Dean's sure, is the fault of his brother. He's not about to say that, though, not about to tell Sam that if Sam had just been a little more interested in the neighbourhood, a little less eager to leave, people would have felt differently about him. 

He keeps his mouth closed, mostly because everyone here knows that Sam's different and no amount of openness would have made a difference. The North Wind visiting them, Jack Frost, even the brownies; no one else had the littlest of the fair folk living side-by-side with them. They knew John, knew what he was down to his core, their Da never hid anything. Dean's always been open, hasn't been afraid to get his hands dirty at the factory, roll up his sleeves at the pub, help out anyone he can. 

Sam, though. Sam's eyes have always been closed off and Sam hid, not just his heart and mind but his body as well, stuck in libraries and school hallways. Sam never fit in and everyone knew it. Dean isn't sure if Ellen really does know something or if she's guessed the same as everyone else; if the fae weren't there for John or Dean, it had to be Sam. For his part, Sam never did anything to disabuse them of that idea. 

Ellen slides a pint to Dean, has it land right in his waiting palms. She's careful with Sam's wine, places it in front of him gingerly. She gives Sam a tight nod, then looks at Dean and says, "Jo'll be glad to have ye back." 

Dean sighs. Jo's cute but she's always been more of a sister to Dean than anything else. "I don't know how long we'll be here," Dean says, leaning forward so that no one other than Ellen can hear. Just in case he's not quiet enough, in case there's a Wrong One he can't smell or a UVF bastard he can't pick out of the crowd, Dean doesn't mention anything about his father. "Just here for a few days while we decide what we're doing." 

She doesn't look much impressed that Dean's throwing his lot in with Sam but Dean doesn't care. "Drink up, boys," Ellen says, "and leave me to running the pub for ye, aye?" 

"Aye, Ellen," Dean says. He lifts his glass in salute to her, clinks glasses with Sam, murmurs, " _Sláinte_ ," then starts to chug. 

\--

The house is quiet, too quiet. Dean tosses and turns in his bed until he gets fed up with the sheets tangling around his ankles. He gets up, heads for the kitchen, and nearly dies of a heart attack when he turns the light on and sees Sam sitting at the table. 

"Tryin' to kill me, are ye?" he gasps out, one hand over his heart. 

Sam, distinctly unimpressed, merely hums. Dean drops into the chair across from Sam, leans back and catches his breath. Sam's got his hands around a mug of milk and Dean has to check, sees that the bowl on the floor is half-empty, that the kitchen's clean and a sheen of frost covers the windows. There's a potted plant on the counter that Dean doesn't remember seeing earlier. He nods at it then raises his eyebrow.

"Jo dropped it off while you were in the shower," Sam explains. "Said her Ma told her to bring it over." 

Ellen does know, then. 

"She didn't stay?" Dean asks. Jo's usually more persistent than that. 

Sam doesn't smile but there's a kind of amusement dripping from his voice when he tells Dean, "She decided not to. I told her you might be a while." 

Dean doesn't exactly trust that Sam's told him the whole story but he shrugs, asks, "Couldn't sleep?" At Sam's look, Dean grins, says, "Aye, I couldn't either. Way I see it, we have a couple choices. Back to the pub for some lager, turn on the telly, go out riding around. Any of those sound good to ye?" 

"Not really," Sam answers. 

Dean frowns, tilts his head. Sam hadn't exactly been bouncing off the walls with joy earlier but he seemed happier. "Sam," he says. He waits until Sam's looking at him, then asks, "What's happened?" The corners of Sam's eyes tighten, only for a moment; if Dean hadn't been looking for it, he might have missed it. "Tell me, Sam." 

Sam looks away, then looks down at his hands. "Rameel sent a message through Ava," Sam finally says, just when Dean's about to push again. "He wants to see me tomorrow. Today," Sam amends, glancing at the clock on the stove. 

"He say why?" Dean asks. 

"No," Sam says. "But I can guess." 

The inking that Ruby and Meg both mentioned earlier, the one Sam said might kill him if it's done in the traditional way. Sam looks about as thrilled at the prospect as Dean feels. It's hard enough to convince people now that Sam's still human where it counts. It'll be a lot harder if he's inked with the signs of fae heirship. 

"How do the fair folk ink, if they don't use needles?" Dean asks. 

Sam doesn't look at Dean and doesn't answer the question. 

\--

Dean goes to work the next morning, finds out that Ash has been covering for him. He apologises to his supervisor, manfully refraining from rolling his eyes at how twitchy Elkins is. Apparently Ash has been doing a good job, though, so Elkins tells Dean to take as much as time as he needs. Dean smiles, says hello to all of the guys on the floor, then leaves, heading back to the house. 

Sam's gone. 

For a minute, all Dean can do is stare blankly into the house and try to keep breathing; this is too much like all of Dean's worst nightmares. Finally, after a minute of frantic searching, Dean sees a note on the kitchen table. He sits down, almost collapses in relief. It's not a very long note but Sam says he'll be back. Dean has to have faith that Sam isn't lying. 

It isn't much more than five minutes before Sam opens the door, gives Dean a sheepish look. He's carrying another plant in one arm and sets it down next to the one Ellen sent over. 

"I thought I'd beat you back," he says. "Sorry." 

A full-on apology, that's not like Sam, especially as he left a note. Dean frowns, glances at the plants sitting side-by-side. Ellen's was something flowery, something typical and house-y, something to send to a relative in the hospital. Sam's, though, is more of a hanging basket, nothing but vines and leaves, not a sign of flower or bloom. 

"Sure," Dean said. He nods at the plant, asks, "What's that for?"

Sam's jaw clenches, unclenches. "Rameel. Ava told me he'd be calling this morning."

Dean's stomach sinks. "About the inking," he guesses. At Sam's nod, Dean sighs, leans back in his chair. "Are ye gonna tell me what's involved? Y'know, so I don't embarrass ye." 

"You can't go, Dean," Sam says. 

"Bollocks," Dean replies, almost immediately. He'd figured Sam would argue. "I'll bloody well go if I want to. I'm still your brother, even if I can't do that trick with my eyes the way ye and your fae friends can." Sam's not looking at him. Dean presses his luck, adds, "'Sides, someone has to remind ye that ye can still die. Wouldn't do to go forgetting that, aye?" 

Sam licks his lips, nods once. "Aye." A pause, then Sam asks, "Dean, are you _sure_ you." 

Dean stands up, walks around the table, and smacks the back of Sam's head. He leaves the room without another word, heading for the bathroom and a long shower that will hopefully use up all of the hot water. 

As he's leaving, he hears Sam mutter, "Guess that's a yes," and grins. 

\--

They're in the kitchen when the call comes. Dean's trying to balance the pub's checkbook and Sam's reading something written in ogham. Sam looks up, head tilted to one side and eyes narrowed, as if he can hear a noise very far away. Dean looks up from the bank statement, itches one cheek and only then realises he has ink all over his fingers. 

"What is't?" Dean asks. 

Sam turns to the flowers and Dean follows his brother's gaze. A moment later, as if waiting for their attention, the potted plant shivers and the vines in the hanging basket coil upwards, floating in the air. 

Dean bites his tongue to keep the first comment to mind back, and the second and third, as well. "Ah," he finally says. 

Without much more than a half-hearted glare, Sam stands up, goes over to the plants, and says, " _Sláinte chugat, athair_." Dean grimaces at the words, at the fact that Sam calls Rameel his father, but doesn't say anything, simply listens as Sam seems to be doing. 

Sam doesn't say much, one or two words more before murmuring, " _Slán leat_ ," and moving back from the plants. Sam sits on the chair carefully, almost as if he's not convinced it will hold him, that or as if he doesn't quite believe the chair is real. 

"What did he say?" Dean asks. He won't waste time, not when Sam's eyes are glowing green and Sam's pale, far too pale, even for a fae.

"I need to stop by a friend's house," Sam says. "And then we need to go to the Public Garden." 

Dean blinks, murmurs, "That's where it's going down, aye? Picked a pretty place. It's only surrounded by people, _all the time_." 

Sam's grin, when it comes, is faltering. "Well. When you're fae, you can get away with a lot more before anyone calls the cops." 

Dean guesses that's true. Hates it, but he can't argue with it and they both know it. "Come on," he finally says. "Best get this over with. Who's your friend, Sam, and will I need to drive?" 

"Someone I haven't seen in a while," Sam answers. "And no. She lives close and we can take the T downtown from there." 

\--

Sam leads Dean across a couple blocks, sneaks between some buildings and slides around the broken fence at old Mrs. McGillicuddy's place. He does it with familiarity, like he's made this trip before, but every so often he'll look at a corner he jumps or a wire he ducks as if he doesn't remember it being that height, that width. Dean gets the impression that Sam's practically beat this path out himself and he doesn't like it; it's too close to their house for Dean to have not known anything about this. 

He doesn't say anything about it, though, not even when they turn a corner and there's a woman waiting on the steps of an old brownstone, cardigan bright and, it looks, thick. She has her hands on her hips, curly black hair spiralling around her head, and Dean's shocked when she says, "Sam-baby, not a word for three weeks? Child, I was beginning to get worried." 

It's not the fact that she's black -- Dean doesn't care about that -- but she's clearly not Irish. Dean's shock only grows when Sam scuffs his toes on the ground and says, "Sorry, Missouri. The last three weeks have been a little hectic. I'm, uh. I'm here now?" 

She smiles, opens her arms, and Sam flies up the stairs, gives her a hug and accepts a kiss on the cheek. This, from Sam, who hasn't let their _father_ touch him in years. 

"Oh, baby," she murmurs, looks to be hugging Sam just as tightly before she leans back, says, "I got them ready for you. Go on, get inside and start looking. Your father ain't gonna wait all day." 

Without so much as looking at Dean, Sam goes inside the house, screen door clacking loudly behind him. Dean frowns, then meets the woman's eyes and blanches. She's glaring at him, hands on her hips again. "I'm," Dean starts to say. 

"You're Dean Winchester," she interrupts. "Sam's older brother. I take it you know everything or else Sam wouldn't be bringing you 'round here."

"Uh," Dean says. "Yeah, I know -- what do ye mean, everything?" his eyes narrow in return. 

She stares at him and Dean does his best not to fidget. Either she's impressed or she's angry; it's hard to tell when she turns away and yells at Dean over her shoulder. "Boy, if you ain't inside my house in the next five seconds, you ain't coming in." 

Dean takes the steps two at a time. 

\--

He walks inside, hesitant, but decides the place is okay if a little out of his normal experience. Most of her walls are painted white from hip-level up and red down, black furniture, hints of other colour here and there in throw pillows and rugs, symbols painted on just about everything. Dean has no idea what those symbols mean. 

Sam's sitting cross-legged on the floor in the living room, right next to a coffee-table covered with books. He's chewing a pen and looks very intent on whatever he's reading. 

Dean's about to go and see what's caught Sam's attention so thoroughly but the woman clears her throat and Dean grimaces, leaving Sam and following the woman into her kitchen. The kitchen's brighter, lots of sunlight and a row of plants along the windowsill above the sink. Dean nods, impressed against his will, even if the place is a lot warmer than he's strictly comfortable with. 

"Sit down, Dean Winchester," she says, opening the fridge and taking out a pitcher of something that smells vaguely alcoholic when she pours a glass and thumps it down in front of Dean. "You got questions, go ahead and ask." 

With a frown, Dean says, "How'd ye." 

She clucks her tongue and rolls her eyes. "Because Sam doesn't like touching anyone other than you, and he runs to give me a hug first thing. 'Course you'll have questions. I wasn't born yesterday, boy; give me a little credit." 

"When ye said he hadn't contacted ye in three weeks," Dean says. "What does that mean? And how long has Sam known ye? What's he reading? And what the bloody hell is your name?" 

"Missouri Mosely," she says, before coming close enough to Dean to whack him over the knuckles with a wooden spoon. Dean glares, rubs his hand. "And don't swear in my house." She raises an eyebrow and Dean nods, resisting -- only barely -- the urge to stick out his tongue at her. Missouri raises the other eyebrow as if she can tell exactly what he's thinking. 

Dean doesn't cower but he does back down, settles into his chair and takes a sip of whatever it was Missouri had given him. He tastes milk and bourbon, cinnamon, too, and the combination is weird enough that he's caught analysing it, jumps when Missouri talks. 

"I've known Sam since he was ten," she says. Dean's eyes widen. "I ran into him down at, well, the place doesn't matter. He was looking for answers and I had some, just enough. He came over every day after school for eight years, slipped away from y'all some during the summer when he could. Sam practically lived here." 

All that time, and Dean didn't have a clue. All those years, and Sam never said a word. Dean had always thought Sam was hiding at school, in libraries, maybe even bookstores, and he was _here_ , with this woman. 

"I gave him some money when he left," she goes on. "Sent him off with my blessing and a couple recommendation letters. Sam kept in touch; he was always good about that. At least once a week he'd call or email, and I got something in the mail every so often." 

Dean bets she never sent any of it back. For the first time since he left San Francisco with Sam at his side, Dean feels a curl of sick regret low in his stomach. "What _are_ ye?" he asks. "Ye said ye were human but." He stops there, half-waiting for her to smack him with that spoon again.

Missouri smiles and, for the briefest of moments, Dean would almost swear he sees another smile overlaid on top of hers. "You ever hear of voodoo, boy?" 

Dean blinks. Whatever he'd thought, that certainly wasn't it. "It's real?" he asks. "It's not just Hollywood?" 

"Lord a'mighty, no," Missouri says, grinning wide. she sobers up, though, sits down across the table from Dean. "My people, we made some deals with the Catholic church in our time. Kinda got our gods and spirits tangled up with your saints and couldn't get them untangled all the way. When your people made deals with the fae, ours got dragged in a little, too, though we like to stay on the edges." She pauses, eventually says, "Everything's connected, Dean. Even if you might not think it."

That almost sounded like a warning, that or a very serious hint. 

\--

They sit in silence for a few minutes, long enough for Dean to feel almost settled in Missouri's presence. Sam pokes his head around the corner, asks, "Missouri? There are a few things I hope you have hanging around here somewhere." She asks what and Dean's bewildered when Sam says, "Devil's shoestring, horseshoe nail, and willow." 

Missouri thinks for a second and says, "The willow might be goin' old but it'll work. Upstairs." 

Sam grins, disappears, and Dean asks, "What in -- what's he _doing_?" catching himself at the last second. 

Her smile wavers, then drops as she turns back to Dean. "What has he said about the inking?" 

A little shocked and coming to the slow conclusion that he should really stop being surprised with the words coming out of Missouri's mouth, Dean shrugs. "Not much. Just that he's not sure if he'd survive it being done the traditional way." 

Missouri nods, a tiny movement. Dean waits and she finally says, "Shadows. They'll use shadows." 

Dean pales. There's a vague reference in one of the legends to an heir being marked by shadows, but Dean can't remember much more than that, doesn't even know which legend it came from. He knows enough, though, to know that it's never a safe thing, allowing shadows that close. 

"Will he be all right?" Dean asks, close to a whisper. 

"With the mojo he's calling up, maybe," Missouri answers. She doesn't sugar-coat the answer; Dean appreciates that. 

\--

Sam thumps down the steps ten minutes later. Dean searches his brother's body for any sign of the things he was asking for earlier but can't find them. Missouri stands, goes over to Sam; he turns his back to her and lifts up his hair. On one curl underneath the main mop of Sam's hair, Sam has plaited in a fibrous strand of willow root and something that looks like honeysuckle but must be the devil's shoestring Sam mentioned. There's no sign of the horseshoe nail. Dean doesn't ask. 

"It should hold," Missouri finally says. "But it'd be better if you had some oak." 

"The willow'll be fine," Sam says, firm yet kind, somehow. It's the way Dean's always wished Sam could disagree with their father: standing his ground but not disrespectfully. Dean feels a sudden flash of resentment run through his body. 

Missouri pats Sam's hair down, pushes a curl behind one ear. Dean wants to kill her. 

"You should go," she says, "before your brother does something he'll regret." Dean bites his lip and gives Sam a closed-lip smile when Sam looks at him. "Call me," Missouri says. "I'd like to know you're still alive at the end of the day, else you better believe I'll be making some calls of my own." 

Sam shakes his head, smiling even though his eyes are firm. Dean's shocked, wonders what Missouri means. Is she connected to the mob somehow? Or -- his brain fizzes, shuts down before he can even think about what real voodoo could accomplish. 

\--

They take the T downtown, walk out of Arlington station into a crowd of people that makes Dean feel uncomfortable. He's a working guy, runs a pub, Pádraig's sake, and has never been at home in crowds of the rich. Sam doesn't look out of place, tall and good-looking, driven and focused on something Dean can't see. 

The Garden's not as busy as Dean would have thought; that has to be part-fae and part-weather. Sam leads him through willows to the edge of the lagoon. Dean can see a few people on the island, all facing Sam. One of them reaches out with one hand and the patch of water in front of Sam and Dean shimmers and freezes. 

"Oh, no," Dean says, shaking his head and stepping backwards. "Sam, there's no way I'm _walking on water_ across to the island."

"They've closed it to other ways," Sam says. His eyes are fixed on the island, not even flicking towards Dean. "If you want to go, you'll have to do it _our_ way." 

Fae, it's all too bloody _fae_ and Dean swears as he scrambles to follow Sam. The water freezes ahead of them when Sam takes a step and falls back into flowing behind them; if the half-fae doing this changes their mind, he and Sam are taking a dive. 

Her control's good, though, and she puts her arm down and then leaps forward to hug Sam when the two have made it onto the island. Dean takes her in -- straight brown hair, tiny, jam-packed with nervous energy -- and scans the others. Meg's here, of course, and so is Ruby. There's a guy who must be Tom, Dean thinks, and then Rameel, standing behind all of them. 

Rameel's yellow eyes meet Dean's and he murmurs, "O' course, a human to witness and an ally beside." 

Dean glares but turns to Sam when Sam touches him on the arm and says, "You know Meg and Ruby. This is Ava and that's Tom." 

Glad to see he was right, Dean gives Tom a charitable nod and studies Ava a little closer. Ava's hanging close to Sam and her eyes, they're a gorgeous brown that glow with hints of cinnamon, gold streaking through the way it streaks through Sam's. Sunlight fae, Dean thinks, and categorises the others: all sunlight as well. Lucas was moonlight, though, his eyes shot through with silver; Dean wonders if it has anything to do with who sired them but he isn't going to ask, not with Rameel watching him. 

"Are ye ready, my son?" Rameel asks. 

Ava separates herself, stands next to Tom and lets him put an arm around her shoulders. Meg and Ruby exchange glances, self-satisfied and smirking glances. Sam takes a deep breath, lets it out. He pulls off his shirt, drops it on the ground and nods. "Yes," he says. "Yes, father. I am." 

They move away from the edge of the island, into a little copse of trees. Rameel and Sam face each other, Meg at Rameel's side. Sam drops to one knee, bends his head and bares his neck. Dean hates watching it but even he, a pure mortal, feels _something_ passing between the two. 

"Have ye chosen?" Rameel asks. 

Sam looks up; Dean can tell from the set of his jaw that Sam's being stubborn again. "Dean," he says. "That's why he's here."

Meg hisses in a breath but Rameel just looks amused. "A mortal?" he asks. "Are ye sure? The odds," he trails off. 

Dean steps forward, says, "Whatever Sam said. He's sure." Rameel's smile fades and Dean looks down at his brother, says first, "I hope I didn't just volunteer to die," followed by, "And there's no way I'm kneeling. I only kneel to God." 

"All you need to do is witness," Rameel says. He nods at Meg, says, "Begin the summoning." 

Shadows, Sam had said. Meg can call shadows. That's why she's here, and Ava to freeze the water for them. Ruby is Sam's contact and Rameel is his father; Tom's the only one who doesn't have a clear-cut reason to be here. 

All of that goes through Dean's mind in a rush, followed by a very abrupt stuttering. Meg's just standing there but there are shadows surrounded her, swirling around her in the same lazy rhythm that her eyes are swirling, black as Ruby's.

"Ye have killed," Rameel says. "Ye have killed one of the kithland's enemies with naught but the gift of the _daoine sídhe_ : death in all of her manifestations. Ye have killed one of our mortal ally's enemies with naught but the gift of the _daoine sídhe_ : the bringing of the peace of endings. Do ye claim these deaths?" 

Sam looks up, hands clenched on his knees. "I do." 

Rameel hums and the cloud of shadows around Meg grows deeper, darker. Dean thinks he can hear the shadows crooning, making noise, and his skin covers in goosebumps. "Ye are my son, mine and the son of our mortal ally, raised by one of our mortal allies. Do ye claim this life?"

"I do," Sam says, "just as I claim as brother the son of that same woman and that same mortal ally." 

The shadows pause in their rhythm, Ava gasps, and Dean gets the feeling that Sam wasn't exactly supposed to have said that. 

Rameel doesn't miss a beat, though. "As ye claim these deaths, as ye claim this life, so I claim ye. Ye are worthy, Samuel. So all the kithland knows, your sister shall mark ye." 

Meg smiles, eyes cold, and tilts her head at Sam. The shadows swarm and Sam doesn't make a sound. Dean isn't sure what the big deal about the shadows is but then one of them makes a wide turn around Sam, cutting into Dean's shoulder and arm as it moves. Bone-breaking agony shoots through Dean's shoulder and he loses all feeling in his side. 

He looks down, doesn't see any sign of the tremendous pain he's experiencing, and grits his teeth when he realises: Sam's probably feeling that same pain right now, to a much, much greater degree. "Stop," Dean says, breath hitching and voice rasping in pain. "Ye have to. Ye have to stop or ye will kill him." 

"If he dies," Rameel says, no inflection to his words, "then he isn't worthy. Now _be quiet_." 

As much as he wants to argue, Dean literally cannot, just as he can't move. The numbness coursing through his body is better than the agony but Sam can't be getting the same reprieve. Unable to do anything else, Dean settles for glaring at Rameel, that and flicking worried eyes in Sam's direction. 

\--

It feels like an hour later when the shadows start to dissipate but Dean knows it couldn't have been that long. As soon as the last shadow disappears into the trees, Sam slumps to one side and Dean finds himself able to move again. He takes one step and freezes, almost, _almost_ , gasps. Sam's got tattoos all over his chest and back, what looks like a tree-trunk on his back with branches that stretch all over his body, those branches twining with another kind of plant, everything in full bloom. 

Dean stares, can't not, and finally says, in a strangled whisper, "Rowan and oak. Mother and _saints_ , Sam." Sam's bleeding but not too much; most of the wounds look like shallow scratches along the lines of the tattoos and are already starting to scab over. Sam hasn't moved. "What they'd do, cut ye open and _shove_ the plants inside of ye?" No one answers and Dean gapes. "They did? Sam, _fuck_."

Sam sits up, back straight and lips tight as if maintaining the posture is killing him. He doesn't say a word to Dean, just looks at Rameel, inclines his head and murmurs, " _Slán leat, athair._ And thank you."

Rameel nods, says, "All will know." By the time Dean's gaze moves from Sam to the fae, Rameel is gone and Ava's moving to help Sam.

Dean had been ready to give the fae a piece of his mind; with Rameel gone and Ruby disappearing into a pile of wildflowers and moss, Meg and Tom are the only ones left. Tom's watching, silent and impassive, so Dean glares at Meg; he didn't like her before and he hates her now, taking in the content look on her face, the way her eyes are still coiling in satisfaction. 

Ava's on Sam's other side, giving him support to sit upright, and she murmurs, "Sam, you couldn't pick one of us, could you," and wipes a trail of blood off the skin under Sam's nose. "You couldn't, you had to piss him off."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asks. He drops to his knees, runs his fingers lightly over the tattoos, the bleeding stripes around them. His voice is thin, threaded out with worry, and he doesn't even care. "Ava?" 

"I'm fine," Sam says. He looks up and Dean doesn't recognise the light in his brother's eyes. It terrifies him. Sam says, again, "I'm _fine_ ," and stands up. He needs Ava and Dean's help both to stagger over to a tree, lean against it and thunk his head back. Before Dean can say anything, Sam says, "Not that it isn't good to see you, but why are you here, Tom?" 

"Thanks for the welcome," Tom says, grinning, though the smile drops as he continues. "I've got one more piece of news from my contact in Wales. There's an entire clan here, in Boston. UVF. They've been recruiting; actually, they just initiated a new member."

"Nick," Dean says. "She's the one who killed Nick?" 

Tom nods but doesn't take his eyes off of Sam. "They've been hunkering down by the harbour across from Drydock. We were hoping you would go, along with the other two." 

Dean frowns, takes a moment to figure Tom means him and his father. The three Owen men, going after the same UVF who killed Nick and God only knows who else. 

"Sounds like fun," Dean says. He meets Sam's eyes, gives his brother a smile. Sam swallows, seeing it, and puts on his shirt when Ava hands it to him. As his hair falls back into place, Dean sees that the plaited-in pieces of willow and devil's shoestring have burnt away and Sam's hair is singed. 

He gets chills, doesn't ask.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean wakes up three days later and tenses because something doesn't feel right. He takes the gun out from under his pillow and stalks to the living room, stopping in shock when he sees who's there, channel-surfing and sipping a beer. 

"Da?" he breathes. 

John looks at him and smiles. "Dean. I hear we have a hunt." 

Dean smiles, can't not, but then he starts laughing, a high, hysterical laugh that has Sam skidding down the hallway a moment later, crusts of sleep still falling from his eyes. 

Sam almost runs into Dean, says, "Dean? What is," before he stops, eyes finally falling on John. The wave of tension running upwards from Sam's feet sobers Dean up, and it's after Sam takes a step backwards that Dean realises his brother's only wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms. Sam's new tattoos are clearly visible, waving and shifting in the light from the television. 

Without thinking about it, Dean takes one half-step in front of Sam, getting between Sam and their father. John's smile turns sad, bitter, then drops off his face altogether. Dean's made it clear where he'll stand, what side of the line he's on. 

"Sam," John says, standing up. His knees crack and Dean looks closer, sees that his father looks as if he's aged ten years in the past month. "I know."

"How much?" Sam asks, wary, elbowing Dean out of the way. 

John smiles, head tilted as he takes Sam in. His eyes pause on the tattoos, on the thin scars along their edges, then go back to Sam's eyes. "A'most everything," he says. "Except the name of your sire." 

Dean glances at his brother, sees Sam's eyes whirling green and gold; beyond them, in the edge of Dean's vision, he notices the plants swivelling to dance in Sam's direction. 

"But it doesn't matter," John adds. "You're my son in all but blood, and even then I'd argue. I'm only sorry I didn't get the chance to say that before ye left." 

Sam swallows, nods. "And you," he says. "You might not have sired me, but you're still my Da."

"Oh, great," Dean mutters. "Chick-flick moment. Can we move on? I'd like to know how ye heard about the hunt, Da, for one. And where ye've been?" 

John's grin comes back and he sits down again, putting his feet up on the table. With a glance at his brother, Dean sits down as well, Sam choosing to stretch out on the floor. Sam leans back and shadows of trees start playing on the wall behind him; he hasn't been able to control his shadow since he was inked. 

"I went for answers, o' course, and found more than a few," John says. "A friend got word to me before I left about the bloody UVF coming after the gun so I took it and ran. Yesterday, a lass rang me up and told me there was a clan of Loyalists here. She said ye were here as well, and to come back and go after them together." 

"Who was she?" Dean asks. 

John shakes his head, shrugs, and Dean raises an eyebrow at his brother. "Ava," Sam finally says. "Ruby would have called them traitors and Meg wouldn't have been so nice about it." 

Dean thinks about that for a second, then nods. That sounds about right. 

"When are we going?" Sam asks. He's using the same tone of voice he used in the clearing with Ruby, the one that's ready to kill. Dean gets chills. His father looks pleased, if full of regret. 

\--

They end up perched on the roof of a shipping container across from the warehouse. John and Dean have guns; Sam's seemingly weaponless but the most deadly of the three. John has a pair of binoculars and he's been studying the warehouse for an hour now. He hasn't said much except to keep a count of people coming and going, and Dean's getting cold. 

"We'll need to keep a watch," John murmurs. "Get an idea of how many bastards are in there."

"Twelve," Sam replies, just as quietly. "There's only twelve of them and they're all there. Even the new girl." 

Dean frowns, meets John's eyes before they both turn to look at Sam. Sam tenses as if he can feel the weight of their combined gaze. "And how would ye know that, Sam?" Dean asks. "Tom didn't say anything about the new recruit being a woman." 

"We're planning on killing them," Sam says. 

Before Dean can ask what that's supposed to mean, John says, "I hadn't realised your gift was that developed." 

Dean blinks, utterly taken-aback at how easy John sounds, how much that relaxes the line of Sam's shoulders. It takes Dean twice as long, because of it, to understand what his father means. "Ye mean," Dean says, voice heated even though it's low, "that ye can _see_ them because they're going to die?" 

"Which means we win," John says. "A'right, Sam. If ye boys are ready, we'll go down now."

John doesn't wait, heads for the edge to swing over and drop down. In the seconds Dean has alone with Sam, he turns to his brother and hisses, "How is Da taking this so well?" 

Sam's smile, when he gives it to Dean, is just as sad as John's had been that morning. "This is why I was born, Dean. To help Da and use my gifts to free Eire from the Loyalists. That's why he didn't argue." Dean thinks he imagines hearing Sam add, "He's never liked me because I'm fae and the proof of his wife's adultery, but now that the war's back, I'm useful." 

He had to have imagined Sam saying that. Even then, he doesn't believe that Sam really _meant_ it. 

\--

They creep towards the warehouse door. There's no telling if the people inside ever leave or ever sleep but they'll have a watch and they'll be waiting. Dean's heart has slowed down, time seems like it's stretching out and making every second last an hour. He's heard of this happening before, this focus; he wonders if Sam felt like it when he used his gift or if everything then happened as fast as it seemed.

John's calm and Sam looks it as well; Dean takes a deep breath and reminds himself. These are UVF they're hunting, the ones allied with the English, the ones who made a deal with Morda and his descendants. They killed Nick, killed Martin, would kill Dean's father or brother given the opportunity. They need to die. They _should_ die. They're too wrong to be left alive.

Dean wonders if the fact that he has to justify this means something. 

\--

He and John go in with guns blazing, Sam with the power of his gift clearly visible in his eyes. Sam takes out the closest without flinching and John starts shooting, covering their right. Dean aims, fires, sees a man go down and doesn't feel a thing. He picks out his next target, shoots, and feels a searing pain graze his leg. He stumbles, goes down to one knee, but still manages a headshot to the guy who clipped him. 

"No," Sam murmurs. " _No_." 

Every one of the UVF clan members still alive starts screaming. John lets his gun fall, keeping an eye on the UVF as he drops to a knee next to Dean. John starts rolling up the leg of Dean's jeans but Dean can't take his eyes off of his brother, off of the UVF. Sam's shaking his head, shaking all over, and the tattoos on his chest must be going wild because they're poking holes through his t-shirt, coiling out of him and burrowing through the ground in long, lashing stripes of dirt. They rear up, curl around the feet of the UVF, and hold them in place as the people start smoking. 

The smell of burning flesh fills the warehouse but the people don't _burn_ ; they just drop dead moments later, one agonising scream apiece before shuddering and falling still. The branches whip through the air, striking bellies and necks open, then retreat and slide back under Sam's t-shirt. Sam stands there, breathing hard, eyes glassy even as they seem to ripple with a power that feels as right to Dean, as _good_ , as the Wrong One felt evil.

"Sam," Dean says. "What," and he stops, forgetting the pain in his own leg as Sam collapses to the floor and starts retching. 

John looks torn, doesn't know who needs his help more, and Dean nods at Sam, pushes his father when John hesitates. 

"Sammy," John says, voice rumbling he's speaking in such a low register. He puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, hisses and flinches backwards as one of the branches whips back out of Sam's shirt and waves, almost hypnotically, in front of his face. "Sam, it's just me. It's just your Da, a'right?"

"Sorry," Sam gasps, wiping off his mouth on the back of one hand. "Sorry, Da, I'm sorry but I can't, until the bodies have been, are, I can't."

John nods, as if that makes any kind of sense, and stands up. He takes a handful of silver coins out of one pocket and a knife out of the other. Dean understands, then, and struggles to his own feet. At John's look, Dean shrugs, says, "I can help ye, Da. Faster we do it, faster Sam's better. Somehow I don't think people will look kindly on him if he's like that on the T."

Sam snorts, waves them both on, and heaves again, nothing but liquid coming up. 

\--

Dean places the coins on the eyes of the bodies, all of the clan save for the one man Sam burnt up in the initial rush. John carves crosses into the bodies' forearms. Some of the bodies have gunshots to the head, heart, but most of them appear untouched, save for the smell of burnt hair and skin lingering around them, save for the blood coursing down from their necks and the entrails spilling out from their stomachs. Dean tries not to inhale. 

That's all that Dean's ever heard about a Winchester execution so it comes as a surprise when John says, "Now we pray, Dean." 

Dean looks at his father, frowns but nods, and listens as John recites. The words fill Dean's spirit with something approaching reverence, with understanding. This prayer, it defines their mission, reaffirms their faith, consecrates the souls of the dead to God. 

"And Shepherds we shall be," John says, clear and calm and quiet, "for thee, my Lord, for thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand, that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy commands. So we shall flow a river forth to Thee and teeming with souls shall it ever be. _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_. Amen." 

"Aye, and amen," Dean echoes. 

He meets his father's eyes, inclines his head, and they both turn to look back at Sam. Sam's sitting upright, now, and his tattoos must have faded back into his skin. "Are ye all right?" Dean asks. 

Sam swallows, grimaces at the taste. "Yes," he says. "But something isn't right about this." John asks what and Sam shakes his head. "It's missing something. Where was the Wrong One? This was a clan; they should have at least one Wrong One here. Their alliance." Sam trails off, shakes his head again. "I'd like to go home now," he says. "I'm all right enough to do that." 

Dean looks at his father and they share a glance thick with conversation. Still, they both go over to Sam, each taking one of Sam's hands, and the three of them stumble out into the dawn. 

\--

They get back to the apartment and clean up. Sam's looking better so Dean lets his little brother stitch him up under the careful supervision of their father. John's hovering, for lack of a better term, and Dean has to scold his father to go to bed. Sam watches, half in shock, when John mutters but does as Dean says. 

"Ye were gone for three years," Dean says, softly. He doesn't want to bring that up, would prefer to forget it ever happened, but Sam's missed a great deal. 

"I know," Sam says. He finishes stitching up Dean's leg, puts a bandage on and tapes it. 

Dean grimaces but doesn't argue, merely says, "That's gonna hurt coming off." 

Sam nods, meets Dean's eyes for the first time since the warehouse. "Sorry." 

Dean should say something. He lets one beat pass, then two, then three, finally nods. "Me too," he says, and leaves Sam alone in the kitchen.

\--

Dean wakes up with an ache in his leg the size of Eire herself. He groans as he gets up, puts weight on it and nearly collapses. "Next time," he tells himself. He hops to the bathroom, puts a little more weight on his foot as he pisses and washes his hands, throws some water on his face. By the time he's rounding the corner into the kitchen, his leg feels a little better, feels less like the end of the world and more like that time Caleb tried attacking the goal and Dean got in his bloody way like a good centre-back would, getting a bruised shin-bone for thanks.

He's looking down at this leg, at the bandage, and walking automatically to where he knows the teapot is. Dean stops, though, when he catches sight of Sam in his path. He changes the direction of his glance and takes a step back, because that is in no way natural or even understandable. 

"Ye might as well have a seat," John says. Dean takes another step backwards and then sideways, towards the kitchen table. John's sitting down, mug in his hands, and he looks exhausted. "He's been out here like this for hours, since before I got up. I have no idea what he's doing or who he's talking to, but I hate to think what might happen if we disturb him." 

Sam's sitting on the middle of the floor and has the potted plant Ellen dropped off on his lap. That's not so bad, but the hanging basket is above Sam's head, resting on the ends of branches, branches of oak and rowan. Sam's not wearing a shirt; Dean can see the way that his tattoos have poked out of skin again, have entwined with each other to support that basket and form a loose net around Sam. 

"When did ye get up?" Dean asks, sitting down heavily. 

John's smile is hard, more of a grimace than anything else. "Six hours ago. And I found 'im like this." 

Six hours, and nothing of Sam moving except those tattoos. Dean swallows, feels ill. The thought of a strong cup of tea is looking less interesting. Guinness, Guinness would be better. Whisky would be best. 

\--

They wait and drink, bust out the old package of coffee they have from the freezer and mix it up with the last of the whisky, stretch it out over the next couple hours. That's all it takes before Sam's shuddering and the basket above him wavers. Dean stands up, curses at the pain in his leg and sits down again. 

Sam blinks and reaches up, catches the basket before it drops right onto his head. The branches of oak and rowan curl, slink their way back into Sam's skin. For the first time since Sam was inked, they don't leave any sign of having come to life, no scars, no blood, when they retreat. 

"Ye wanna tell us what's going on?" Dean asks, could kick himself a moment later when Sam turns glassy eyes on Dean, when Dean can't entirely erase the thread of pain from his voice. Sam shakes his head as if he's trying to clear it and Dean says, again, "Sam? What's going on?" 

"I can track the Wrong Ones," Sam says. He sounds fae, distant. "The death they swallowed, I can find it anywhere."

Dean narrows his eyes but John leans forward, intent. "The Wrong One who was attached to that clan," he says, words measured. "Where did it go?" 

One corner of Sam's mouth curves upwards. His eyes are more gold than green, the tattoos winding their way all over Sam's body. "It fled but there's another waiting for us in Salvation, Iowa," he says. "It wants us to face it down; it thinks choosing Protestant territory will lessen our power."

"Fools," John says. 

Dean doesn't know whether to be relieved at the calm certainty in his father's voice or terrified by the casual dismissal in Sam's. He decides not to worry about it. "We'll need sleep," he says, trying to be the voice of reason. "And supplies. And I'm not exactly one hundred percent right now." He pauses, adds, "And if the one attached to that clan left, who's waiting for us in Salvation?" 

"It'll be Morda," John says. Dean's head aches. "He's throwing down the gauntlet. Can we take him, Sam?" 

"All three of us," Sam says. His eyes clear a little and settle on Dean. "If you consent to a fae healing, I can have someone here in seconds."

Dean licks his lips, starts to ask, "What would that," before he glances at his father and stops. John isn't saying anything but his gaze is steady. "I consent." 

The potted plant, still on Sam's lap, shivers, seems to curl inwards on itself. Sam plucks off one blossom and sets it on the floor in front of him. The blossom starts to spin, floats off the ground and gets enough speed that Sam's hair ruffles in the breeze. Just as Dean's thinking this means Ruby's coming, the blossom starts to spread out, the indistinct haze of a human shape forming in the air. 

Dean blinks, sure his eyes are fooling him, but the blossom stretches and fades as a person comes into sharp focus, sitting on the ground with knees pulled up to chest and head ducked. He can't tell if it's human or fae, male or female, until she lifts her head and smiles. Her eyes are moonlight fae, grey with silver, pupils as dark as the space between the stars. 

She's one of the children like Sam. 

She's also entirely naked. 

"One sec," she says, and her tattoos spring into full bloom. They cover every inch of her skin like cloth; beautiful blossoms of apple and what looks like blackthorn. John mutters something under his breath, too quiet for Dean to make out. He doesn't ask his father what was said; all of Dean's attention is focused on the woman as she smiles at Sam and says, "I'll get the trick of it one of these days."

She sounds New York, a little, and Dean's surprised when she and Sam start laughing; the sounds of their laughter, different registers but with the same sound of wind and bells, are too beautiful for mortal ears. 

"Lily," Sam says, standing up and offering Lily a hand. She takes it, stands, and Dean studies the blossoms that leave only her face bare. "This is my Da, John Owen, and my brother, Dean."

Lily nods at John, eyes sparkling with silver, and then turns to Dean. "My patient," she says. "Where are you hurt?"

Dean's mouth is too dry the first time he tries to speak. "My leg," he finally says. "Bullet from the UVF."

She waves off his explanation, says, "Sam told us everything already. And off to grab one of the fucking Wrong Ones, are you? Well, I'll give you my best yet." 

Dean flushes. Everyone else in the kitchen laughs. 

\--

It's no laughing matter fifteen minutes later, though. Dean feels the best he's ever felt in his life. His leg's healed and so, he thinks, are the aches from the broken rib he got six years ago, not to mention the fractures and sprains he's picked up over the years from football games and fights down at the pub. 

Lily looks better now as well, and Dean's suspicions are confirmed when she stretches, laughs again, and spins in the middle of the kitchen. "I will _never_ get tired of that rush, Sam. Seriously. Anyone else here need healing?"

"Go on," Sam says, making a shooing motion. "Get out of here and back to your apartment. Put some clothes on." 

"Yes, dear," Lily says, smiling even as she rolls her eyes. "Take care, now! I don't want to see any of you for at least another month. And Sam?" 

Sam raises an eyebrow, looks wary as he says, "Yes?"

Lily stands on her tiptoes, gives Sam a chaste peck on the lips, then whispers into one ear. Sam flushes bright red and Lily's laugh still echoes in the kitchen after she disappears, one blossom resting on the middle of the floor. 

Dean would give just about anything to know what Lily said to put that expression on Sam's face. Before he can ask or start teasing it out of his brother, John clears his throat and says, "I've got supplies in the truck. Now that Dean's fine, we should go. You two can take turns driving." 

"Yes, sir," Dean says, thinking about a long drive and how many different methods he can use in the Impala to get Sam to spill. 

\--

They load up and Sam ends up sitting in the passenger seat with the plant in his lap. "Little less convenient than a mobile, I know, but we might need it," Sam says apologetically. 

Dean snorts, mutters, "A _little_?" but doesn't press any farther, not when Sam's eyes are glowing and the tattoos peeking their way above his shirt collar are moving gently, as if caught in a breeze. "So," he says. "We'll be able to kill it, won't we?" 

Sam's smile is so slight, Dean would've missed it if he hadn't been looking. "Aye. We will. You'd better get going or Da's going to lose us in his dust."

Dean snaps his attention to the front, sees John's truck turning a corner far up the street. He swears, lets the Impala leap forward to catch up. Sam's laughter doesn't take away all of Dean's doubt but it goes a long way.

\--

Dean pulls to a stop behind their father's truck, half a mile away from the house Morda's holed up in. Dean hasn't been able to get a word about Lily out of Sam and he's already feeling discontent, disconnected, when he gets out of the car and looks around. Iowa is strange, flat and barren in the middle of winter; they're in the middle of nowhere right now, acres of farmland, and something about it feels wrong. 

"Morda," Sam says, practically spitting as he gets out of the car as well. His eyes are golden in the sun, almost bright like brass; they didn't settle back to his normal green once during the drive and now, now they've gone even more fae. "He knows we're here. He's waiting for us." 

The sound of the truck's door slamming pulls Dean away from Sam's eyes and he turns in time to see his father reach into the truck bed and pull out a case. John walks over to the Impala, sets the case down on the hood, opens it up. Dean moves so he can see what's inside and can't help letting his eyes widen. 

The Winchester, one of the guns that gave John's unit their name, the gun that killed John's wife, Dean's mother, the human parent of a fae crown prince. 

"Will it work?" Dean asks, voice soft and low with reverence, a tinge of horror. 

John's smile is grim. He strokes the barrel, runs his fingers over the gun the way he might a lover. "One of the people I saw when I took off," he says. "They fixed it so it would fire." John looks up, asks Dean, "Ye have a weapon?" 

Dean's about to ask if his father's lost his mind, of course he does, but then he remembers Fragarach, stalks back to the Impala's trunk and takes the gun out of its wrapping. An old sweatshirt isn't the most sophisticated way to keep a weapon safe but Dean's Irish, not English, and no fabric, no box, would be worth as much as the gun. 

"Fragarach," Dean says, showing the gun to his father. John doesn't touch it but looks it over carefully, critically, before nodding. "At least, that's what Sam thinks."

"Fragarach, Lugaid's spear, and a fae prince with the power of the _daoine sídhe_ ," John says. "The bastard might be waitin' for us but he'll die today." 

Dean feels light-headed, blood rushing through his body. The stench of the Wrong One has his throat tightening, makes him want to gag, but a sudden breeze rises from the gun, cleanses the air around Dean and sends the smell away. Wind, Dean thinks, and the power to control it. This was a princely gift, would have been even for Sam, and yet Ruby, a full-blooded fae, gave it to Dean. He wishes he knew why.

He knows they should wait, should do some reconnaissance on the house and make sure there aren't any UVF lurking. Sam would have picked them up and said something, though, Dean knows that the same way he knows that something about him being given the gun is odd, unexpectedly strange. He can't do anything about the latter but the former, well. At least they'll only have one Wrong One to deal with, even if it the original, the oldest of them all. 

"We should go," Sam says. He takes off his coat and shirt, leaves them in the car. 

"Are ye mad?" Dean asks, watching with disbelief. "Sam, it's the middle of winter. In _Iowa_."

Sam grins. "I like that coat. And that shirt. If, y'know," he gestures at his chest, at the tattoos swirl and branches start forming odd strands of ogham, "then I don't want to waste the seconds it'll take them to get through the layers.' 

Dean rolls his eyes, leans over and ruffles Sam's hair. Sam yelps, steps away and tries to fix a mop that hasn't looked good since he grew it out a decade ago. "Ye can be a real idiot, ye know that, aye?" 

"Boys," John says, but he's smiling. He makes sure both Sam and Dean are watching before looking up at the heavens and saying, "God, grant me patience."

Sam snorts and raises his hands in a gesture of innocence when John's gaze turns in his direction. "Should we go or are we going to stand here and pray?" Sam asks. "Because I, for one, would like to get this over with." 

If Dean's a little relieved that Sam isn't entirely happy about this, he's not going to say anything, especially not when John's telling them to hurry along, then.

\--

The house is what Dean's always expected from a typical farmhouse: wrap-around porch, lace curtains in the window, barn out back. It doesn't keep his heart from pounding or his hands from getting sweaty; he rubs them on his jeans and tries to focus on the way Sam's teeth are chattering from cold. 

John pauses on the walkway, bends down and touches the first step of the porch, whispers, "Oh, Lord, raise me to Thy right hand and count me among Thy saints," before adding, "But not before it's my time. Please." 

Dean grins, nervous, even as he echoes the sentiment. 

The front door's unlocked. Sam goes first; neither Dean nor his father can argue with the glint in his golden eyes. Dean's almost upset when the door doesn't squeak. There's no noise coming from any particular direction, nothing about the smell to pinpoint Morda's location. Dean leans closer to his father and whispers, "Where's he waiting?" 

"Anyone who was brave enough to wait for us," John answers, "was always in the kitchen. _Always_." 

Sam's heard them; he nods in agreement and leads the way through the living room, down a narrow hallway, and into a kitchen lit with the reflection of sun off the snow outside. Morda's sitting at the kitchen table, leaning back in the chair with his legs splayed and one hand tapping fingernails into the table, leaving gouges in the wood. 

The Wrong One in Blackwater had been barely human but Morda, perhaps because he was the only one to drink from Ceridwen's cauldron instead of changing via contagion, isn't as bad. He still looks a little human but his skin is more like wet paper, oozing and dripping in parts, flaking in others. His eyes are sunken-in pits with nothing inside of them and his teeth curve out over his lips, pointed and sharp. Dean feels sick to his stomach just looking at Morda, even with the smell being swept away from his face thanks to Fragarach. 

"I was almost of the mind none of ye would show up," Morda says, shifting enough to put Dean even more on guard. "But here ye are. A fae, one of their allies, and a child." Dean frowns; he has the very childish urge to stick his tongue out. 

"Three men," John says. Sam and Dean move forward, flanking their father on either side. "Owens, all o' us, and descendants of Cúchulainn as well. Sam might be sired by a fae but he's my son and Dean's more a man than ye ever were, Morda. A blind hireling who couldn't even protect his lady's cauldron. What would Ceridwen think of ye now, were she to see ye?"

Morda hisses at the name of Ceridwen and stands up. The chair tips over, slams against the ground and shatters into dust. "That _bitseach_ ," he snarls. "It was her own fault, not mine."

Sam's voice, when it comes, echoes with the ringing of bells. Morda's snarl drops at the sound of them, takes a step backwards in something that looks like fearful hatred. "Not even man enough to take responsibility for your own actions. It's no wonder you lost your humanity."

"At least I _was_ human," Morda snaps back. "Ye, ye little fae halfling, bastard child on both sides, ye cannae claim the same." 

"He's not a bastard," Dean says without stopping to think first. "He's been claimed by two families. Ye didn't even have one." The entire room freezes as Morda reels back as if Dean had just landed a punch to his jaw. "Is that why ye turned the others, Ceridwen's husband and daughter? Thought ye'd make yourself a family since no one else wanted ye?"

All pretense of humanity seeps out of Morda and the Wrong One's hollow eyes film over with white. Morda stands there but he's calling up power, Dean can feel it. It's almost paralysing, strong and evil and completely unnatural; even with as hard as Fragarach is working, the feeling of inhumanity surrounds Dean and attacks him. 

"Not my family," Dean hears, and he can't even turn to look until after Sam's tattoos have broken free of his skin, have reached out and whipped through the air around Morda, slashing his calling to pieces. 

Dean almost stumbles once he's released, is both pleased and not to see his father looks about as affected. 

"Too much to ask for a civil conversation?" Morda asks, almost pleasantly. "I should expect it from one of ye, fae, but not from a human. 'Course, he _is_ one of the Separatists. They've nae e'er had much sense." 

Gritting his jaw, Dean says, "I don't think we should waste any more time, Da." 

John nods and Sam hums in agreement; a moment later, the battle's on.

\--

Morda fights dirty, calling up power and sending it at John and Dean seemingly without effort. They try to shoot the Wrong One but most of the bullets fall to the floor or melt before they can get anywhere near him. The one or two that get through don't seem to have any effect. 

"There's too much magic in the air," John says, words hissed out as he ducks a whip of Morda's power, getting caught in the shoulder. "He's doing something to counteract our weapons."

Dean's stomach sinks as he slams against a wall, Morda's cackling laughter sending chills down his spine as a line of the Wrong One's power singes the air in front of him. There's not much they can do; Sam's tattoos are intercepting the majority of strikes but they can't get them all. Dean's bleeding from a dozen different places after just a few minutes and John's worse. 

"Sam!" he calls. "I know ye like to be in control, but now would be a good time to _let go_." 

"As if that fae child can do anything," Morda taunts. "He has nae enough power to counter what gifts that bitch Ceridwen's potion gave me." 

Between the challenge and the plea from Dean, something in Sam snaps; Dean can almost feel the air tighten and then pop the second Sam loosens every barrier on his gifts. Fire clouds the air, the fire that Dean remembers from Blackwater and then again from Burkitsville. It eats up the atmosphere around Morda and Dean knows that any power Morda might be able to call up from latent ley lines is disappearing just as fast. 

The Wrong One screams, the sound carrying a sonic wave that knocks all three Owens off of their feet, tosses them around like rag dolls. Half the furniture disintegrates in the wave; half of the wall behind them turns to ash. "Think ye that's all it'll take?" Morda cackles. "Think ye I'll." 

Two gunshots cut him off, one from the Winchester, one from Fragarach. Morda lifts a hand as if to stop the bullets but they're coated in fae fire and they flow through his barrier as if it isn't even there. One bullet hits his heart, the other his head, and Morda staggers as fire eats him from the inside. 

"Not all," John says, helping Dean to stand. "But enough. _Go stróice an diabhal thú._ "

Their heftiest curse and one that Dean's never heard spoken aloud. He thinks it's appropriate and sends a clump of spittle toward Morda's body, caught in flames, to speed it along. 

John offers Sam a hand; Sam looks at it, looks at his father, and smiles, takes it and lets John help him up. Sam's been worried about their father's acceptance, Dean knows that, but this, this will erase that doubt and send it to the devil along with Morda. 

Dean stands next to his father, next to his brother, and watches the Wrong One turn to ash, then to dust, then to nothing. 

\--

They find a motel close by. Sam calls Lily, who clucks her tongue but heals them all and disappears with giddy laughter. When they've changed, cleaned up, they find a bar and toast the death they caused, locals listening to their Irish words and Irish laughter with distant suspicion.

Sleep comes easy and hard; Dean wakes up to the low sound of voices. He sits up, squints in the direction of their room's rickety table and sees his father and brother hunched over, talking in low voices. It warms his belly. 

"What's going on?" he asks, voice rough with sleep. He gets out of bed, swears at the cold floor, and pulls on socks and a t-shirt before sitting down next to Sam, yawning hard enough to get his jaw to pop. 

Sam elbows Dean and nods at the cup of coffee on the table. Dean picks it up, takes a sip. Lukewarm but good enough, and he chugs the whole cup down before looking at John and Sam for an answer.

John smiles, a more honest smile than Dean's seen since they moved to the States. "Trying to work out our next step," he says. "I'm goin' home, start rounding up my old contacts," John says. "See if I can't find a few others as crazy as we are who won't mind bringing the fight to this country. What will ye do?" 

"Cahokia," Sam replies, no thought necessary. "I was told to go to Cahokia. My contact with the fae court, she said that the mounds there are old fae _tuatha_ there that need to be opened before we can really bring the fight to this country."

Dean looks at his brother, then back at his father. "You're both," he starts, stops. He's been blindsided and he doesn't think it has _too_ much to do with the fact that he just woke up. "Ye. Sam, I know ye have. Da. How far are we gonna take this?" he asks. 

John sighs, rubs his forehead. "The question is not how far, Dean. The question is, do ye possess the constitution, the depth of faith, to go as far is as needed? I do and I will. Sam's choice was made for him but he'll see it through of his own free will." Dean sees Sam nod out of the corner of his eyes. "But ye, ye have options. Ye have not been bound to this path the way that I have and the way Sam has. This isn't a battle we'll see the end of any time soon. No one would blame ye for getting out whilst ye can."

Sam adds, "Actually, we'd probably think you were the sanest one out of all of us," with an apologetic look at his father. John nods, though, and doesn't say anything in rebuke.

Dean leans back, stares at his empty coffee cup. The smart thing to do would be to walk away. Sam's right, the _sane_ thing to do would be to forget all of this, to go back home to Boston and keep the sills loaded with crusts and milk, to take back his spot at the factory and live a life where the most worrying thing on any given day is a late shipment of Guinness.

He looks at his father, worn and ragged but with a hint of a smile still playing around the corners of his lips. John's beard is going grey. If Dean lets his Da go, he might never see him again, alive _or_ dead. Dean turns his gaze to Sam, gets caught on the edges of those tattoos, thinks about Sam's abilities, about Sam's destiny and parentage and extended family. 

He's not sure he can do this but he knows he can't let his family go off and do it without him. 

With a smile at John, Dean looks at Sam and says, "I'd have to be insane to let ye go off half-cocked by yourself. Ye'd get blown up inside an hour. Besides, I'd like to find out why _I_ was gifted with Fragarach and not someone else. I'm afraid, Sammy-boy, you're stuck with me." 

Sam's trying for petulance but failing on account of his grin when he mutters, "It's _Sam_ , you jerk."

\--

John leaves for Boston an hour later. Sam slides into the Impala's passenger seat and closes his door. Dean takes an extra minute to stare out over the cornfields, sun in his eyes, before getting into the Impala and turning him towards Cahokia.

\--

_Never shall innocent blood be shed, yet the blood of the wicked shall flow like a river.  
The Three shall spread their blackened wings and be the vengeful striking hammer of God._


End file.
